Giles  Corey. 
Yeoman 


BY 

Mary  EWilkins 


[V-i^c  98 


FATHER ;    FATHER . 


GILES   COREY,  YEOMAN 


B  IPlai? 


BY 


MARY   E.  WILKIXS 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW     YORK 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 


189 


! 
Harper's  ' '  Black  and  White"  Series.    ^ 

Illustrated.     321110,  Cloth,  50  cents  each. 

WHITTIER  :     NOTES     OF     HIS     LIFE    AND     OF     HIS      j 

FRIENDSHIPS.     By  ANNIE  FIELDS. 
GILES  COREY,  YEOMAN.     By  MARY  E.  WilkinS. 
COFFEE  AND  REPARTEE.    By  JOHN  KENDRICK  BANGS. 
SEEN     FROM     THE     SADDLE.       By    ISA    CAKRINGTON 

Cabell. 

A    FAMILY    CANOE    TRIP.      By    FLORENCE    WATTERS 
Snedeker. 

A     LITTLE     SWISS     SOJOURN.      By    WILLIAM     DEAN 

Howells. 
A  LETTER  OF  INTRODUCTION.    A  Farce.    By  AVILLIAM      I 

DEAN  Howells.  | 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL.     An  Address.    By  GEORGE     | 

WILLIAM  Curtis. 
IN    THE    VESTIBULE    LIMITED.      By   Brander   MAT- 

THEWS. 
i     THE   ALBANY   DEPOT.     A   Farce.     By   WILLIAM    DEAN 
j  HOWELLS. 

j     Published  by   HARPER  &   BROTHERS,  New  York,     j 

I         For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  7vitl  be  sent  by  the  publishers,      i 
postage  prepaid,  on  receipt  of  price.  \ 


Copyright,  1893,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 
All  rights  reserved. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

father!    father!"    .       .       .       .    Frontispiece 

THIS  IS   NO   COURTING    NIGHT  ".    Faces  p.    22 

HEY,     BLACK     CAT  ;      HEY,     MY 

PRETTY    BLACK    CAT".       .       .         "  26 

•THERE  IS  A  FLOCK  OF  YEL- 
LOW-BIRDS AROUND  HER 
HEAD" "  46 


GILES   COREY,   YEOMAN. 


CAST   OF   CHARACTERS. 

Giles  Corey. 

Paul  Bayley,  Olive  Corey'' s  lover. 

SaiMUEL  Parris,  minister  in  Salem  Village. 

John  Hathorne,  \,nagistrates. 

Jonathan  Lorwin,      ) 

Olive  Corey,  Giles  Corey'' s  daughter. 

Martha  Corey,  Giles  Corey^s  wife. 

Ann  Hutchins,  Olive's  friend  a7id  one  of  tJie  Afflicted 

Girls. 
Widow  Eunice  Hutchins,  Ami's  mother. 
Phcebe   Morse,  little  orphan  girl,   niece  to  Martha 

Corey. 
Mercy  Lewis,  o?ie  of  the  Afflicted  Girls. 
Nancy   Fox,  an  old  serving-woman  in  Giles  Corey'' s 

house. 

Afflicted  Girls,  Constables,  Marshal,  People  of  Saletn 
Village,  Messengers,  etc. 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I. — Salem  Village.  Living-room 
171  Giles  Corey's  house.  Olive  Corey  is 
spinning.  Nancy  Fox,  Lhe  old  servant, 
sits  in  the  fireplace  pariftg  apples.  Lit- 
tle Phoebe  Morse,  on  a  stool  beside  her, 
is  knitting  a  stocking. 

Phoebe  {starting).  What  is  that?  Oh, 
Olive,  what  is  that  ? 

Nancy.  Yes,  what  is  that  ?  Massy, 
what  a  clatter! 

Olive  {spinning).  I  heard  naught.  Be 
not  so  foolish,  child.  And  you,  Nancy, 
be  of  a  surety  old  enough  to  know  better. 

Naticy.  I  trow  there  was  a  clatter  in 
the  chimbly.  There  'tis  again  !  Mass\-, 
what  a  screech  ! 

Phcebe  {ricnning  to  Olive  and  clinging 
to  her).  Oh,  Olive,  what  is  it?  what  is 
it?     Don't  let  it  catch  me.     Oh,  Olive  ! 

Olive.  I  tell  you  'twas  naught. 


Nancy.  Them  that  won't  hear  be  deafer 
than  them  that's  born  so.  Massy,  what  a 
screech  ! 

Phcebe.  Oh,  OHve,  Ohve  !  Don't  let 
'em  catch  me ! 

Olive.  Nobody  wants  to  catch  you.  Be 
quiet  now,  and  I'll  sing  to  you.  Then 
you  won't  think  you  hear  screeches. 

Nancy.  We  won't,  hey  ? 

Olive.  Be  quiet !  This  foil}"  hath  gone 
too  far.  \Siugs  spinning  song, 

SPINNING  SONG. 

"  I'll  tell  you  a  story ;    a  story  of  one, 
'Twas   of    a   great  prince  whose    name   was    King 

John. 
A  great  prince  was  he,  and  a  man  of  great  might 
In  putting  down  wrong  and  in  setting  up  riglit. 
To  my  down,  down,  down,  derry  down." 

Nancy.  Massy,  what  screeches  ! 

{^Screams  violently. 

Phcebe.  Oh,  Nancy,  'twas  you  screeched 
then. 

Nancy.  It  wasn't  me  ;  'twas  a  witch 
in  the  chimbly.  {Sc?'ea7ns  again)  There, 
hear  that,  will  ye  }  I  tell  ye  'twa'n't  me. 
I  'ain't  opened  my  mouth. 

Olive.  Nancv,  I  will  bear  no  more  of 


this.  If  you  be  not  quiet,  I  will  tell  my 
mother  when  she  comes  home.  Now, 
Phoebe,  sing  the  rest  of  the  song  with 
me,  and  think  no  more  of  such  foll}^ 

{Sings  uiith  Phoebe. 

"This  king,  being  a  mind  to  make  himself  mem', 
He  sent  for  the  Bishop  of  Canterbury. 
'  Good-morning,  Mr.  Bishop,'  the  king  did  say. 
'  Have  you  come  here  for  to  live  or  to  die?' 
To  my  down,  down,  down,  deny  down. 

"  '  For  if  you  can't  answer  to  my  questions  three, 
Your  head  shall  be  taken  from  your  body ; 
And  if  you  can't  answer  unto  them  all  right, 
Your  head  shall  be  taken  from  your  body  quite.' 
To  my  down,  down,  down,  deny  down." 

Nancy  (waggiJtg  her  head  in  time  to  the 
music).  I  know  some  w^ords  that  go  bet- 
ter with  that  tune. 

Phosbe.  What  are  they  ? 

Na7icy.  Oh,  I'm  forbid  to  tell. 

Phosbe.  Who  forbade  you  to  tell, 
Nancy  } 

lYancy.  The  one  who  forbade  me  to 
tell,  forbade  me  to  tell  who  told  me. 

Olive.  Don't  gossip,  or  you  won't  get 
your  stints  done  before  mother  comes 
home. 


Phoebe  {suUcily).  I  won't  finish  my  stint. 
Aunt  Corey  set  me  too  long  a  stint.  I 
won't.     Oh,  there  she  is  now  ! 

\Kiiits  busily. 

Enter  Ann  Hutchins. 

Olive  {rising).  Well  done,  Ann.  I  was 
but  now  wishing  to  see  you.  Sit  you 
down  and  lay  off  your  cloak.  Why, 
how  pale  you  look,  Ann !  Are  you 
sick  } 

Ann.  You  know  best. 

Olive.  I  }   Why,  what  mean  you,  Ann? 

Ann.  You  know  what  I  mean,  in  spite 
of  your  innocent  looks.  Oh,  open  your 
eyes  wide  at  me,  if  you  want  to !  Per- 
haps you  don't  know  what  makes 
them  bigger  and  bluer  than  they  used 
to  be. 

Olive.  Ann  ! 

Ann.  Oh,  I  mean  nothing.  I  am  not 
sick.  Something  frightened  me  as  I 
came  through  the  wood. 

Olive.  Frightened  you  I  Why,  what 
was  it? 

Phcebe.  Oh,  what  was  it,  Ann  ? 

Ann.  I   know  not:   something;  black 


that  hustled  quickly  by  me  and  raised 
a  cold  wind. 

Phcebe.  Oh,  oh  ! 

Olive.  'Twas  a  cat  or  a  dog,  and  your 
own  fear  raised  the  cold  wind.  Think 
no  more  of  it,  Ann.  Wait  a  moment 
while  I  go  to  the  north  room.  I  have 
something  to  show  you. 

[Exit  Olive  luzf/i  a  ca7idle. 

Pkcsbe.  "What  said  the  black  thing  to 
you,  Ann  ? 

Ann.  I  know  not. 

Nancy.  Said  it  not :  "  Serve  me  ;  serve 
me  y 

A7tn.  I  know  not.  I  was  deaf  with 
fear. 

Phoebe.  Oh,  Ann,  did  it  have  horns? 

Ati7i.  I  tell  you  I  know  not.  You  pes- 
ter me,  child. 

Phcebe.  Did  it  have  hoofs  and  a 
tail? 

Ann.  Be  quiet,  I  tell  you,  or  I'll  cuff" 
your  ears. 

Nancy.  She  needn't  be  so  topping.  It 
will  be  laying  in  wait  for  her  when  she 
goes  home.  I'll  warrant  it  won't  let  her 
off  so  easy. 


Enter  Olive,  irzngz7ig  an  embroidered 
7nuslin  cape.  She  puts  it  gently  over 
Ann's  shoulders. 

Ann  {thr owing  it  off  violently^.  Oh  I 
oh  !     Take  it  away  !  take  it  away ! 

Olive.  Why,  Ann,  what  ails  you  ? 

Attn.  Take  it  away,  I  say!  What 
mean  you  by  your  cursed  arts  ? 

Olive.  Why,  Ann !  I  have  been  sav- 
ing a  long  time  to  buy  it  for  you.  'Tis 
like  my  last  summer's  cape  that  you 
fancied  so  much.  I  sent  by  father  to 
Boston  for  it. 

A7171.  I  need  it  not. 

Olive.  I  thought  'twould  suit  well  with 
your  green  gown. 

A7171.  'Twill  suit  well  enough  with  a 
green  gown,  but  not  with  a  sore  heart. 

Nancy.  I  miss  my  guess  but  it  '11  suit 
well  enough  with  her  heart  too.  I  trow 
that's  as  green  as  her  gown  ;  green's  the 
jealous  color. 

Olive.  You  be  all  unstrung  by  your 
walk  hither  through  the  wood,  Ann,  I'll 
fold  the  cape  up  nicely  for  you,  and  you 
can  take  it  when  you  go  home.     And 


mind  you  wear  it  next  Sabbath  day, 
sweet.  Now  I  must  to  my  wheel  again, 
or  I  shah  not  finish  my  stint  by  nine 
o'clock. 

A7t?i.  Your  looks  show  that  you  were 
up  later  than  nine  o'clock  last  night. 

Phcebe.  Oh,  Ann,  did  you  see  the  light 
in  the  fore  room  ? 

Ann.  That  did  I.  I  stood  at  my  cham- 
ber and  saw  it  shine  through  the  wood. 

Na7icy.  You  couldn't  see  so  far  with- 
out spectacles. 

An?t.  It  blinded  me.  I  could  get  no 
sleep. 

Nancy.  You  think  your  eyes  are 
mighty  sharp.  Maybe  your  ears  are 
too.'*  Maybe  you  heard  'em  kissing  at 
the  door  when  he  went  home  ? 

Olive.  Nancy,  be  quiet  I 

Najicy.  You  needn't  color  up  and 
shake  your  head  at  me,  Olive.  They 
stood  kissing  there  nigh  an  hour,  and 
he  with  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and 
she  with  hers  round  his  neck.  They'd 
kiss,  then  they'd  eye  each  other  and  kiss 
again.  I  know  I  woke  up  and  thought 
'twas  Injuns,  and   I   peeked  out  of  my 


chamber  window.    Such  doings  I    You'd 
ought  to  have  seen  'em,  Ann. 

Phcebe.  Oh,  Nancy,  why  didn't  you 
wake  me  up  .^ 

Olive.  Nancy,  I'll  have  no  more  of 
this. 

Na7icy.  That's  what  she  ought  to  have 
said  last  night — hadn't  she,  Ann.'*  But 
she  didn't.  Oh,  I'll  warrant  she  didn't ! 
I  know  you  would,  Ann. 

Olive.  Nancy ! 

[^  7ioise  is  heard  outside. 

Phcebe.  Oh,  what's  that  noise  }  What 
is  coming? 

Enter  Giles  Corey,  pajiting.     He  fiings 
the  door  to  violently  and  slips  the  bolt. 

Naficy.  jMassy !  what's  after  ye  } 
Phcebe.  Oh,   Uncle  Corey,  what's  the 
matter  ? 

Giles.  The  matter  is  there  be  too  many 
evil  things  abroad  nowada3's  for  a  man 
to  be  out  after  nightfall.  When  things 
that  can  be  hit  by  musket  balls  lay  in 
wait,  old  Giles  Corey  is  as  brave  as  any 
man ;  but  when  it  comes  to  devilish 
black  beasts  and  black  men  that  musket 


balls  bound  back  from —  What!  you 
here,  Ann  Hutchins  ?  What  be  you  out 
after  dark  for  ? 

Ann.  I  came  over  to  see  Olive,  Good- 
man Corey. 

Giles.  You'd  best  stayed  by  your  own 
hearth  if  you've  got  one.  Young  wom- 
en have  no  call  to  be  out  gadding  after 
dark  in  these  times. 

Phcsbe.  Oh,  Uncle  Core3^  something 
did  frighten  Ann  as  she  came  through 
the  wood.  A  black  beast,  with  horns 
and  a  tail  and  eyes  like  balls  of  fire, 
jumped  out  of  the  bushes  at  her,  and  bade 
her  sign  the  book  in  a  dreadful  voice. 

Giles.  What  I     Was't  so,  Ann  ? 

An7t.  I  know  not.  There  was  some- 
thing. 

Olive  {laughing).  'Twas  naught  but 
Ann's  own  shadow  that  her  fear  gave  a 
voice  and  a  touch  to.  Say  naught  to 
frighten  Ann,  father;  she  is  the  most 
timorous  maid  in  Salem  Village  now. 

Giles.  There  is  some  wisdom  in  fear 
nowadays.  You  make  too  light  of  it, 
lass. 

Olive  {laughing).  Nay,  father,  I'll  turn 


to  and  hang  up  my  own  shadow  in  the 
chimbly-place  for  a  witch,  an  you  say  so. 

Giles.  This  be  no  subject  for  jest.  Said 
you  the  black  beast  spoke  to  you,  Ann  ? 

Ami.  I  know  not.  Once  I  thought  I 
heard  OHve  calhng.  I  know  not  what  I 
heard. 

Giles.  You'd  best  have  stayed  at  home. 
Where  is  your  mother,  Ohve  ? 

Olive.  She  has  gone  to  Goodwife 
Bishop's  with  a  basket  of  eggs. 

Giles.  Gone  three  miles  to  Goodwife 
Bishop's  this  time  of  night  .^  Is  the 
woman  gone  out  of  her  senses  } 

Olive.  She  is  not  afraid. 

Giles.  I'll  warrant  she  is  not  afraid.  So 
much  the  worse  for  her.  Mayhap  she's 
gone  riding  on  a  broomstick  herself. 
How  is  the  cat  ? 

Olive.  She  is  better. 

Giles.  She  was  taken  strangely,  if  your 
mother  did  make  light  of  it.  And  the 
ox,  hath  he  fell  down  again  ? 

Olive.  Not  that  I  have  heard. 

Giles.  The  ox  was  taken  strangely,  if 
your  mother  did  pooh  at  it.  The  ox  was 
better  when  she  went  out  of  the  vard. 


Phcebe.  There's  Aunt  Corey  now.  Who 
is  she  talking  to? 

Enter  Martha  Corey. 

Phcebe.  Who  were  you  tallying  to,  Aunt 
Corey  ? 

Martha.  Nobody,  child.  Good-even- 
ing, Ann. 

Phoebe.  I  heard  you  talking  to  some- 
body, Aunt  Corey. 

Martha.  Be  quiet,  child.  I  was  talk- 
ing to  nobody.  You  hear  too  much 
nowadays.  [  Takes  off  her  cloak. 

Na7icy.  Mayhap  she  hears  more  than 
folk  want  her  to.  I  heard  a  voice  too,  a 
gruff  voice  like  a  pig's. 

Giles.  I  thought  I  heard  talking  too. 
Who  was  it,  Martha  ? 

Martha.  I  tell  you  'twas  no  one.  Are 
you  all  out  of  your  wits  ? 

[Gets  some  knitting-'work  out  of  a 
cupboard  and  seats  herself. 

Phoebe.  Weren't  you  afraid  coming 
through  the  wood,  Aunt  Corey? 

Martha  {laughing).  Afraid?  Why, 
no,  child.     Of  what  should  I  be  afraid  ? 

Giles.  I  trow  there's  plenty  to  be  afraid 


of.  How  did  you  get  home  so  quick? 
'Tis  a  good  three  miles  to  Goody  Bish- 
op's. 

Martha.  I  walked  at  a  good  speed. 

Giles.  I  thought  perhaps  you  galloped 
a  broomstick. 

Martha.  Nay,  goodman,  I  know  not 
how  to  manage  such  a  strange  steed. 

Giles.  I  thought  perhaps  one  had 
taught  you,  inasmuch  as  you  have 
naught  to  say  against  the  gentry  that 
ride  the  broomstick  of  a  night. 

Martha.  Fill  not  the  child's  head  with 
such  folly.  How  fares  your  mother,  Ann  } 

A7in.  Well,  Goodwife  Corey. 

Giles.  She  lacks  sense,  or  she  would 
have  kept  her  daughter  at  home.  Out 
after  nightfall,  and  the  woods  full  of  the 
devil  knoweth  what. 

Martha.  Nay,  goodman,  there  be  no 
danger.     The  scouts  are  in  the  fields. 

Giles.  I  meant  not  Injuns.  There  be 
worse  than  Injuns.  There  be  evil  things 
and  witches ! 

Martha  {langhi7ig).  Witches  I  Good- 
man, you  are  a  worse  child  than  Phoebe 
here. 


Giles.  I  tell  ye,  wife,  you  talk  like  a 
fool,  ranting  thus  against  witches.  I 
would  you  had  been  where  I  have  been 
to-night,  and  heard  the  afflicted  maids 
cry  out  in  torment,  being  set  upon  by 
Sarah  Good  and  Sarah  Osborn.  I  would 
you  had  seen  Mercy  Lewis  strangled  al- 
most to  death,  and  the  others  testifying 
'twas  Sarah  Good  thus  afiflicting  her. 
But  I'll  warrant  you'd  not  have  believed 
them. 

Martha  {lategkzng).  That  I  would  not, 
goodman.  I  would  have  said  that  the 
maids  should  be  sent  home  and  soundly 
trounced,  then  put  to  bed,  with  a  quart 
bowl  of  sage  tea  apiece. 

Gz'les.  Talk  so  if  you  will.  One  of  these 
days  folk  will  say  you  be  a  witch  your- 
self. You  were  ever  hard -skulled,  and 
could  knock  your  head  long  against  a 
truth  without  being  pricked  by  it.  Hold 
out  if  you  can,  when  only  this  morning 
the  ox  and  the  cat  were  took  so  strange- 
ly here  in  our  ov/n  household. 

Martha.  Shame  on  you,  goodman ! 
The  ox  and  the  cat  themselves  would 
laugh  at  you.     The  cat  ate  a  rat,  and  it 


did  not  set  well  on  her  stomach,  and  the 
ox  slipped  in  the  mire  in  the  yard. 

Nancy.  'Twas  more  than  that,  I  know, 
I  know. 

Gz'les.  Laugh  if  you  will,  wife.  Mayhap 
you  know  more  about  it  than  other  folk. 
You  never  could  abide  the  cat.  I  am 
going  to  bed,  if  I  can  first  go  to  prayer. 
Last  night  the  words  went  from  me 
strangely !  But  you  will  laugh  at  that. 
[Lights  a  candle.     Exit. 

Phoebe.  Aunt  Corey,  may  I  eat  an  ap- 
ple? 

Martha.  Not  to-night.  'Twill  give 
you  the  nightmare. 

Phoebe.  No,  'twill  not. 

Martha.  Be  still ! 

There  is  a  knock.     Olive  opens  the  door. 
Enter  Paul  Bayley.     Ann  starts  i(p. 

Paul.  Good-evening,  goodwife.  Good- 
evening,  Oliv^e.  Good-evening,  Ann.  'Tis 
a  fine  night  out. 

An7i.  I  must  be  going ;  'tis  late. 

Olive.  Nay,  Ann,  'tis  not  late.  Wait, 
and  Paul  will  go  home  with  you  through 
the  wood. 


Ann.  I  must  be  going. 
Paul  {hesitatingly).    Then   let   me    go 
with  you,  Mistress  Ann  !     I  can  well  do 
my  errand  here  later. 

Ann.  Nay,  I  can  wait  whilst  you  do 
the  errand,  if  you  are  speedy.  I  fear 
lest  the  delay  would  make  you  ill  at 
ease. 

Martha  {quickly).  There  is  no  need, 
Paul.  I  will  go  with  Ann.  I  want  to 
borrow  a  hood  pattern  of  Goodwife 
Nourse  on  the  way. 

Paul.  But  will  you  not  be  afraid, 
goodwife  } 

Martha.  Afraid,  and  the  moon  at  a 
good  half,  and  only  a  short  way  to 
go? 

Paul.  But  you  have  to  go  through  the 
wood. 

Martha.  The  wood !  A  stretch  as 
long  as  this  room  —  six  ash -trees,  one 
butternut,  and  a  birch  sapling  thrown  in 
for  a  witch  spectre.  Say  no  more,  Paul. 
Sit  you  down  and  keep  Olive  company. 
I  will  go,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  showing 
these  silly  little  hussies  that  there  is  no 
call  for  a  gospel  woman  with  prayer  in 


her  heart  to  be  afraid  of  anything  but 
the  wrath  of  God. 

[Pufs  a  blatiket  over  her  head. 

A?i?i.  I  want  no  company  at  all,  Good- 
wife  Corey. 

Phcebe.  Aunt  Corey,  let  me  go,  too  ; 
my  stint  is  done. 

Martha.  Nay,  you  must  to  bed,  and 
Nancy  too.     Off  with  ye,  and  no  words. 

Nancy.  I'm  none  so  old  that  I  must 
needs  be  sent  to  bed  like  a  babe,  I'd 
have  you  know  that.  Goody  Corey. 

ySets  aiuay  apple  pan  ;  exit,  with 
VhcebQ  following  sulkily. 

Martha.  Come,  Ann. 

Ajtn.  I  want  no  company.  I  have 
more  fear  with  company  than  I  have 
alone. 

Martha.  Along  with  you,  child. 

Olive.  Oh,  Ann,  you  are  forgetting 
your  cape.  Here,  mother,  you  carry  it 
for  her.     Good-night,  sweetheart. 

Ann.  I  want  no  company,  Goodwife 
Corey. 

[Martha  takes  her  laughingly  by 
the  arm  and  leads  her  out. 

Paul.  It  is  a  fine  night  out. 


Olive.  So  I  have  heard. 

Paul.  You  make  a  jest  of  me,  Mistress 
Olive.  Know  you  not  when  a  man  is  of 
a  sudden  left  alone  with  a  fair  maid,  he 
needs  to  try  his  speech  like  a  player  his 
fiddle,  to  see  if  it  be  in  good  tune  for  her 
ears ;  and  what  better  way  than  to  sound 
over  and  over  again  the  praise  of  the 
fine  weather.?  What  ailed  Ann  that  she 
seemed  so  strangely,  Olive  } 

Olive.  I  know  not.  I  think  she  had 
been  overwrought  by  coming  alone 
through  the  woods. 

Paul.  She  seemed  ill  at  ease.  Why 
spin  you  so  steadil)^  Olive  } 

Olive.  I  must  finish  my  stint. 

Paul.  Who  set  you  a  stint  as  if  you 
were  a  child  ? 

Olive.  Mine  own  conscience,  to  which 
I  will  ever  be  a  child. 

Paul,  Cease  spinning,  sweetheart. 

Olive.  Nay. 

Paul.  Come  over  here  on  the  settle, 
there  is  something  I  would  tell  thee. 

Olive.  Tell  it,  then.  I  can  hear  a  dis- 
tance of  three  feet  or  so. 

Paid.  I  know  thou  canst,  but  come. 


Olive.  Nay,  I  will  not.  This  is  no  court- 
ing night.  I  cannot  idle  every  night  in 
the  week. 

Paid.  Thou  wouldst  make  a  new  com- 
mandment. A  maid  shall  spin  flax  every 
night  in  the  week  save  the  Sabbath,  when 
she  shall  lay  aside  her  work  and  be 
courted.  There  be  young  men  here  in 
Salem  Village,  though  you  may  credit 
it  not,  Olive,  who  visit  their  maids  twice 
every  week,  and  have  the  fire  in  the  fore 
room  kindled. 

Olive.  My  mother  thinks  it  not  well 
that  I  should  sit  up  oftener  than  once  a 
week,  nor  do  I ;  but  be  not  vexed  by  it, 
Paul. 

Paid.  I  love  thee  better  for  it,  sweet- 
heart. 

Olive.  My  stint  is  done. 

Paid.  Then  come,  {She  obeys.)  Now 
for  the  news.  This  morning  I  bought  of 
Goodman  Nourse  his  nine-acre  lot  for  a 
homestead.   What  thinkest  thou  of  that } 

Olive.  It  is  a  pleasant  spot. 

Paul.  'Tis  not  far  from  here,  and  thou 
wilt  be  near  thy  mother. 

Olive.  Was  it  not  too  costlv  ? 


Paul.  I  had  saved  enough  to  pay  for 
it,  and  in  another  year's  time,  and  I  have 
the  help  of  God  in  it,  I  shall  have  saved 
enough  for  our  house.  What  thinkest 
thou  of  a  gambrel-roof  and  a  lean-to, 
two  square  front  rooms,  both  fire-rooms, 
and  a  living-room  ?  And  peonies  and 
hollyhocks  in  the  front  yard,  and  two 
popple -trees,  one  on  each  side  of  the 
gate  ? 

Olive.  We  shall  need  not  a  lean-to, 
Paul,  and  one  fire-room  will  serve  us 
well ;  but  I  will  have  laylocks  and  red 
and  white  roses  as  well  as  peonies  and 
hollyhocks  in  the  front  yard,  and  some 
mint  under  the  windows  to  make  the 
house  smell  sweet;  and  I  like  well  the 
popple-trees  at  the  gate. 

Paul.  The  house  shall  be  built  of  fair- 
ly seasoned  yellow  pine  wood,  with  a 
summer  tree  in  every  room,  and  fine 
panel-work  in  the  doors  and  around  the 
chimbleys. 

Olive.  Nay,  Paul,  not  too  fine  panel- 
work;  'twill  cost  too  high. 

Paul.  Cupboards  in  every  room,  and 
fine-laid  white  floors. 


Olive.  We  need  a  cupboard  in  the  liv- 
ing-room only,  but  I  have  learned  to  sand 
a  floor  in  a  rare  pattern. 

[Paul  attempts  to  embi'ace  Olive. 
She  repulses  him. 

Paul.  I  trow  you  are  full  provident  of 
favors  and  pence,  Olive. 

Olive.  I  would  save  them  for  thee, 
Paul. 

Patd.  And  thou  shalt  not  be  hindered 
by  me  to  any  harm,  sweetheart.  Was't 
thy  mother  taught  thee  such  wisdom, 
or  thine  own  self,  Olive  ? 

Olive.  'Twas  my  mother. 

Paul.  Nay,  'twas  thine  own  heart ;  that 
shall  teach  me,  too. 

[Nine-o'clock  bell  ?'ings. 

Olive.  Oh,  'tis  nine  o'clock,  and  'tis  not 
a  courting  night.  Paul,  be  off ;  thou 
must ! 

[  They  jump  up  and  go  to  the  door. 

Paul  (^putting  his  arm  around  Olive). 
Give  me  but  one  kiss,  Olive,  albeit  not  a 
courting  night,  for  good  speed  on  my 
homeward  walk  and  my  to-morrow's 
journey. 

Olive.  Where  go  you  to-morrow,  Paul  ? 


THIS    IS    NO    COURTING    NIGHT 


Paid.  To  Boston,  for  a  week's  time  or 
more. 

Olive.  Oh,  Paul,  there  may  be  Injuns 
on  the  Boston  path  !  Thou  wilt  be 
wary? 

Paid  {Jang  hi  Jig').  Have  no  fear  for  me, 
sweetheart.     I  shall  have  my  musket. 

Olive.  A  week  ? 

Paul.  Tis  a  short  time,  but  long 
enough  to  need  sweetening  with  a  kiss 
when  folk  are  absent  from  one  another. 

Olive  {kisses  him).  Oh,  be  careful, 
Paul! 

Paul.  Fear  not  for  me,  sweetheart,  but 
do  thou  too  be  careful,  for  sometimes 
danger  sneaks  at  home,  when  we  flee  it 
abroad.  Keep  away  from  this  witchcraft 
folly.     Good-by,  sweetheart. 

[  They  part.  Olive  sets  a  ca7idle  in 
the  window  after  Paul's  exit. 
Nine -o  clock  bell  still  rings  as 
curtain  falls. 


Scene  II. —  Twelve  o  clock  at  night.  Liv- 
mg-roo?n  at  Giles  Corey's  house,  lighted 
07tly  by  the  moo7i  and  low  fire-light.  En- 
ter Nancy  Fox  with  a  candle,  Phoebe 
following  with  a  large  rag  doll.  Nancy 
sets  the  candle  on  the  dresser. 

Na7icy.  Be  ye  sure  that  Goody  Corey 
is  asleep,  and  Goodman  Corey  ? 

Phoebe  {dances  across  to  the  door,  which 
she  opens  slightly,  and  listens').  They  be 
both  a-snoring.  Hasten  and  begin,  I 
pray  you,  Nancy. 

Naticy.  And  Olive  ? 

Phcebe.  She  is  asleep,  and  she  is  in  the 
south  chamber,  and  could  not  hear  were 
she  awake.  Here  is  my  doll.  Now  show 
me  how  to  be  a  witch.     Quick,  Nancy  ! 

Nancy.  Whom  do  you  desire  to  af- 
flict } 

Phoebe  {considers).  Let  me  see.  I  will 
afflict  Uncle  Corey,  because  he  brought 
me  naught  from  Boston  to-day ;  Olive, 
because  she  gave  that  cape  to  Ann  in- 
stead of  me ;  and  Aunt  Corey,  because 
she  set  me  such  a  long  stint,  because 
she  would  not  let  me  eat  an  apple  to- 


night,  and  because  she  sent  me  to  bed. 
I  want  to  stick  one  pin  into  Uncle  Corey, 
one  into  Olive,  and  three  into  Aunt 
Corey. 

Nancy.  Take  the  doll,  prick  it  as 
3^ou  will,  and  say  who  the  pricks  be 
for.         [Phoebe  sticks  a  pin  into  the  doll. 

Phoebe.  This  pin  be  for  Uncle  Corey, 
and  this  pin  be  for  Olive,  and  this  pin 
for  Aunt  Corey,  and  this  pin  for  Aunt 
Corey,  and  this  pin  for  Aunt  Corey. 
Pins!  pins  1 1  pins  I  I  !  {^Dances.)  In 
truth,  Nancy,  'tis  rare  sport  being  a 
witch  ;  but  I  stuck  not  in  the  pins  very 
far,  lest  they  be  too  sorely  hurt. 

Nancy.  Is  there  any  other  whom  you 
desire  to  afflict } 

Fhcebe.  I  fear  I  know  not  any  other 
who  has  angered  me,  and  I  could  weep 
for  't.  Stay!  I'll  afflict  Ann,  because  she 
hath  the  cape;  and  I'll  afflict  Paul  Bay- 
ley,  because  I'm  drove  forth  from  the 
fore  room  Sabbath  nights  when  he 
comes  a-courting  ;  and  I'll  afflict  Minis- 
ter Parris,  because  he  put  me  too  hard 
a  question  from  the  catechism ;  that 
makes  three  more.     Oh,  'tis  rare  sport! 


{Seizes  the  doll  and  sticks  i)i  t/iree  pins) 
This  pin  be  for  Ann,  this  pin  be  for 
Paul,  and  this  pin  be  for  Minister  Par- 
ris.  Deary  me,  I  can  think  of  no  more  ! 
AVhat  next,  Nancy  ? 

Nancy.  I'll  do  some  witchcraft  now. 
I  desire  to  afflict  your  aunt  Corey,  be- 
cause she  doth  drive  me  hither  and 
thither  like  a  child,  and  sets  no  value 
on  my  understanding ;  Olive,  because 
she  made  a  jest  of  me ;  and  Goody 
Bishop,  because  she  hath  a  fine  silk 
hood. 

Phoebe.  Here  is  the  doll,  Nancy. 

Nancy.  Nay,  I  have  another  way, 
which  you  be  too  young  to  under- 
stand. 

[Nancy  takes  the  candle,  goes  to 
the  fireplace,  and  courtesies  three 
times,  looki)ig  np  the  chimney. 

Nancy.  Hey,  black  cat !  hey,  my  pret- 
ty black  cat !  Go  3^e  and  sit  on  Goody 
Corey's  breast,  and  claw  her  if  she  stirs. 
Do  as  I  bid  ye,  my  pretty  black  cat,  and 
I'll  sign  the  book. 

Phoebe.  Oh,  Nancy,  I  hear  the  black 
cat  yawl ! 


Nancy  {after  courtesy ing  three  times). 
Hey,  black  dog!  hey,  my  pretty  black 
dog  !  Go  ye  and  howl  in  Mistress  Olive's 
ear,  so  she  be  frighted  in  her  dreams, 
and  so  get  a  little  bitter  with  the  sweet. 
Do  as  I  bid  ye,  my  pretty  black  dog,  and 
I'll  sign  the  book. 

Phcebe.  Oh,  Nancy,  I  hear  the  black 
dog  how^l ! 

Nancy  {after  courtesy  ing  three  times'). 
He}^  yellow  bird  !  hey,  my  pretty  yellow 
bird  !  Go  ye  and  peck  at  Goody  Bish- 
op's fine  silk  hood  and  tear  it  to  bits. 
Do  as  I  bid  ye,  my  pretty  yellow  bird, 
and  I'll  sign  the  book. 

Phoebe.  Oh,  Nancy,  I  hear  the  yellow 
bird  twitter  up  chimbly  ! 

Nancy.  'Tis  rare  witchcraft. 

Phcebe.  Is  that  all,  Nancy  ? 

Nancy.  All  of  this  sort.  I've  given 
them  all  they  can  do  to-night. 

Phcebe.  Then  sing  the  witch  song, 
Nancy. 

Nfancy.  I'll  sing  the  witch  song,  and 
you  can  dance  on  the  table. 

Phoebe.  But  'tis  sinful  to  dance, 
Nancy ! 


2S 


Na?icy.  'Tis  not  sinful  for  a  witch. 
Phcebe.  True  ;  I  forgot  I  was  a  witch. 
{Gets  np07i  the  table  and  da?ices, 

danglzjig  her  do.//,  ti'hz/e  Nancy 

sings. 

WITCH  SONG. 

(Same  air  as  Spinning-  Song.) 

'  I'll  tell  5'ou  a  ston%  a  stor>'  of  one ; 
'Twas  of  a  dark  witch,  and  the  wizard  her  son. 
A  dark  witch  was  she,  and  a  dark  wizard  he, 
With  yellow  birds  singing  so  gay  and  so  free. 
To  my  down,  down,  down,  derr>'  down. 

'  The  clock  was  a-striking,  a-striking  of  one. 
The  witches  came  out,  and  the  dancing  begun. 
They  courtesied  so  fine,  and  they  drank  the  red  wine— 
The  wizards  were  three  and  the  witches  were  nine. 
To  my  down,  down,  down,  derry  down. 

Halloo,  the  gay  dancers  I     Halloo,  I  was  one ; 
The  goody  that  prayed  and  the  maiden  that  spun! 
The  yellow  birds  chirped  in  the  boughs  overhead, 
And  fast  through  the  bushes  the  black  dog  sped. 
To  my  down,  down,  down,  dern'  down." 

{A  noise  is  heard.     Phoebe  y'//;;//.? 
down  from  the  tab/e. 
Phoebe.  Oh,  Nancy,  something's  com- 
ing I     Run,  run  quick,  or  it  '11  catch  us  I 
S^Both  run  out. 

Curtain  fa//s. 


ACT  II. 

Best  room  in  the  house  of  Widow  Eunice 
Hutchins,  Ann's  mother.  John  Ha- 
thorne  <3:?/<ri^ Minister  Parris  enter,  shown 
in  by  Widow  Hutchins. 

Hutchi7is.  I  pray  you,  sirs,  to  take  some 
cheers  the  while  I  go  for  a  moment's 
space  to  my  poor  afflicted  child.  I  heard 
her  cry  out  but  now.  [Exit. 

[Hathorne  and  Parris  seat  them- 
selves, but  Hathorne  quickly 
springs  up,  and  begi7is  walking. 

Hathor7te.  I  cannot  be  seated  in  this 
crisis.  I  would  as  lief  be  seated  in  an 
onset  of  the  savages.  I  must  up  and 
lay  about  me.  We  have  heretofore 
been  too  lax  in  this  dreadful  business ; 
the  powers  of  darkness  be  almost  over 
our  palisades.  I  tell  thee  there  must 
be  more  action  ! 

Parris  (^pounding  with  his  cane).  Yea, 
Master  Hathorne,  I  am  with  thee.  Verily, 
this  last  be  enough  to  make  the  elect 
themselves  quake  with  fear.     This  Mar- 


tha  Corey  is  a  woman  of  the  cov- 
enant. 

Hathorne.  There  must  be  no  holding 
back.  The  powers  of  darkness  be  let 
loose  amongst  us,  and  they  that  be  against 
them  must  be  up.  We  must  hang,  hang, 
hang,  till  we  overcome  I 

Pa7'ris.  Yea, we  must  not  falter,  though 
all  the  woods  of  Massachusetts  Bay  be  cut 
for  gallows-trees,  and  the  country  be  like 
Sodom.  Verily,  Satan  hath  manifested 
himself  at  the  head  of  our  enemies ;  the 
colonies  were  never  in  such  peril  as  now. 
We  must  strive  as  never  before,  or  all 
will  be  lost.  The  wilderness  full  of  ma- 
lignant savages,  who  be  the  veritable 
ser\'ants  of  Satan,  closes  us  in,  and  the 
cloven  footmark  is  in  our  midst.  There 
must  be  no  dallying  an  we  would  save 
the  colonies.  Widow  Hutchins  saith 
her  daughter  is  grievously  pressed.  {^A 
scream?)     There,  heard  you  that  ? 

HatJi07'ne.  It  is  dreadful,  dreadful,  that 
an  innocent  maid  should  be  so  tormented 
by  acts  which  her  guileless  fanc}'  could 
never  compass ! 

P arris.    \'erily.   malignity   hath   ever 


cowardice  in  conjunction  with  it.  Satan 
loveth  best  to  afflict  those  who  can  make 
no  defence,  and  fastens  his  talons  first  in 
the  lambs. 

Enter  Widow  Hutchins  with  the  embroid- 
ered cape. 

Hutchins.  Here,  your  worships,  is  the 
cape. 

Hathorne  {examines  it).  I  have  seen 
women  folk  wear  its  like  on  the  Sab- 
bath day.  I  can  see  naught  unwonted 
about  it. 

Parris.  It  looketh  like  any  cape. 

Htitchijis.  I  fear  it  be  not  like  any  cape. 
Had  your  worships  seen  my  poor  child 
writhe  under  it,  and  I  myself,  when  I 
would  try  it  on,  bent  down  to  my  knees 
as  under  a  ton  weight,  your  worships 
would  not  think  it  like  any  cape. 

Parris.  I  suspect  there  be  verily  evil 
work  in  the  cape,  and  a  witch's  bodkin 
hath  pierced  these  cunning  eyelets.  It 
goeth  so  fast  now  that  erelong  every 
guileless,  senseless  thing  in  our  houses, 
down  to  the  tinder-box  and  the  candle- 
stick, will  find  hinges  and  turn  into  a 


gate,  whereby  witchcraft  can  enter. 
You  say,  Widow  Hutchins,  that  Olive 
Corey  gave  this  cape  to  your  daughter? 

Hiitchms.  That  did  she.  Yesterday 
evening  Ann  went  down  to  Goody  Corey's 
house  for  a  Httle  chat;  she  and  OHve 
have  been  gossips  ever  since  they  were 
children,  though  lately  there  hath  been 
somewhat  of  bitterness  betwixt  them. 

P arris.  How  mean  you  } 

Hiitchms.  I  have  laid  it  upon  my  mind 
ere  now  to  tell  you,  being  much  wrought 
up  concerning  it,  and  thinking  that  you 
might  give  me  somewhat  of  spiritual 
consolation  and  advice.  It  was  in  this 
wise.  Paul  Bayley,  who,  they  say,  goeth 
every  Sabbath  night  to  Goody  Corey's 
house  and  sitteth  up  until  unseemly 
hours  with  Olive,  looked  once  with  a 
favorable  eye  upon  my  daughter  Ann. 
Had  your  worships  seen  him,  as  I  saw 
him  one  day  in  the  meeting-house,  look 
at  Ann  when  she  wore  her  green  pad- 
uasoy,  you  had  not  doubted.  Youths 
look  not  thus  upon  maidens  unless  they 
be  inclined  toward  them.  But  this  hussy 
Olive  Corev  did  come  between  Paul  and 


my  Ann,  and  that  not  of  her  own  merits. 
There  is  nobody  in  Salem  Village  who 
would  say  that  Olive  Corey's  looks  be 
aught  in  comparison  with  my  Ann's, 
but  I  trow  Goody  Corey  hath  arts  which 
make  amends  for  lack  of  beauty.  I  trow 
all  ill-favored  folk  might  be  fair  would 
they  have  such  arts  used  upon  them. 

Hathorne.  What  mean  you  by  that 
saying.^ 

Hictc/ims.  I  mean  Goody  Cory  hath 
devilish  arts  whereby  she  giveth  her 
daughter  a  beauty  beyond  her  own 
looks,  wherewith  she  may  entice  young 
men. 

Hathorne.  You  say  that  this  cape 
caused  your  daughter  torment  } 

HiitchiJis.  Your  worships,  it  lay  on  her 
neck  like  a  fire-brand,  and  she  thought 
she  should  die  ere  she  cast  it  off. 

Hathorjie.  Widow  Hutchins,  will  you 
now  put  on  the  cape  } 

Hutchins,  Oh,  your  worship,  I  dare 
not  put  it  on  !  I  fear  it  will  be  the  death 
of  me  if  I  do. 

Hathorne.  Minister  Parris,  wilt  thou 
put  on  the  cape  ? 


34 


Parr  is.  Good  Master  Hathorne,  it 
would  ill  behoove  a  minister  of  the  gos- 
pel to  put  himself  in  jeopardy  when  so 
many  be  depending  upon  him  to  lead 
them  in  this  dreadful  conflict  with  the 
powers  of  darkness.  But  do  thou  put 
on  the  mantle  the  while  I  go  to  prayer 
to  avert  any  ill  that  may  come  of  it. 

Hathorne.  Nay,  I  will  make  no  such 
jest  of  my  office  of  magistrate  as  to  put 
this  woman's  gear  on  my  shoulders.  I 
doubt  if  there  be  aught  in  it.  Prithee, 
Widow  Hutchins,  when  did  this  torment 
first  come  upon  the  young  woman  ? 

Hutchins.  Your  worship,  she  went,  as 
I  have  said,  to  Goody  Corey's  yester- 
evening  to  have  a  little  chat  with  her 
gossip,  Olive,  and  Paul  Bayley  came  in 
also,  and  some  of  them  did  talk  strangely 
about  this  witchcraft,  Olive  and  Goody 
Corey  nodding  and  winking,  and  mak- 
ing light  of  it.  And  then  when  Ann 
said  she  must  be  home,  Paul  rose  quickly 
and  made  as  though  he  would  go  with 
her,  but  Goody  Corey  would  not  let  him, 
and  herself  went  with  Ann.  And  she 
did  practise  her  devilish  arts  upon  my 


poor  child  all  the  way  home,  and  when 
my  poor  child  got  on  the  door-stone 
she  burst  open  the  door,  and  came  in 
as  though  all  the  witches  were  after  her, 
and  she  hath  not  been  herself  since. 
She  hath  ever  since  been  grievously 
tormented,  being  set  upon  now  by  Goody 
Corey,  and  now  by  Olive,  being  choked 
and  twisted  about  until  I  thought  she 
would  die,  and  so  I  fear  she  will,  unless 
they  be  speedily  put  in  chains.  It  seem- 
eth  flesh  and  blood  cannot  endure  it. 
Mercy  Lewis  is  just  come  in,  and  she 
saw  Goody  Corey  and  Olive  upon  her 
when  she  opened  the  door. 

Hathorne.  This  evil  work  must  be 
stopped  at  all  hazards,  and  this  mon- 
strous brood  of  witches  gotten  out  of 
the  land. 

Parris.  Yea,  verily,  although  we  have 
to  reach  under  the  covenant  for  them, 

S^Scr  earns. 

Hutchins.  Oh,  your  worships,  my  poor 
child  will  have  no  peace  until  they  be 
chained  in  prison. 

Hathorne.  They  shall  be  chained  in 
prison  before  the  sun  sets.    I  will  at  once 


36 


go  forth  and  issue  warrants  for  the 
arrest  of  Martha  Corey  and  her  daugh- 
ter. 

[More  violent   screa?ns   and  loud 
voices  overhead. 
Parr  is.  Would    it  not  be  well,  good 
Master  Hathorne,  for  us  to  see  the  af- 
flicted maid  before  we  depart  ? 
Hutchi7is.    Oh,  I  pray  you,  sirs,  come 
up  stairs  to  my  poor  child's  chamber  and 
see  yourselves  in  what  grievous  torment 
she  lies.     She  hath  often  called  for  Min- 
ister  Parris,  saying   they  dared   not  so 
afflict  her  were  he  there. 

Hathorne.  It  would  perchance  be  as 
well.  Lead  the  way,  if  you  will,  Widow 
Hutch  ins.      {Exeunt.     Screams  continue. 

Enter  Nancy  Fox  a7id  Phoebe  Morse 
stealthily  from  other  door.  Phoebe 
carries  her  rag  doll. 

Nancy.  Massy  sakes,  hear  them 
screeches  ! 

PhcEbe  {clinging  to  Nancy).  Oh,  Nancy, 
won't  they  catch  us  too  !     I'm  afraid  I 

Nancy.  They  can't  touch  us  :  we're 
witches  too. 


Phabe.  Massy  sakes  !  I  forgot  we  were 
witches. 

Nancy.  Hear  that,  will  ye?  Ain't  she 
a-ketchin'  it? 

Phcebe.  Nancy,  do  you  suppose  it's  the 
pin  I  stuck  in  my  doll  makes  Ann  screech 
that  way  ? 

Nancy.  Most  likely  'tis.  Stick  in  an- 
other, and  see  if  she  screeches  louder. 

PhcBbe.  No,  I  won't.  I'll  pull  the  pin 
out ;  'twas  this  one  in  my  doll's  arm. 
{Pulls  out  pin  and  fiings  it  on  the  floor ^ 
I  won't  have  Ann  hurt  so  bad  as  that  if 
Olive  did  give  her  the  cape.  Why  don't 
she  stop  screeching  now,  Nancy?  Oh, 
Nancy,  somebody's  coming!  I  hear 
somebody  at  the  door.  Crawl  under 
the  bed — quick  !  quick  ! 

[Phoebe  gets  down  and  begins  to 
crawl  under  the  bed.  Nancy  tries 
to  imitate  her,  but  cannot  bend 
herself. 

N'ancy.  Oh,  massy  !  I've  got  a  crick  in 
my  back,  and  I  can't  double  up.  What 
shall  I  do?  {Tries  to  bend.)  I  can't ;  no. 
I  can't !  'Tis  like  a  hot  poker.  Massy ! 
what  '11  I  do  ? 


38 


P/icelh\  You've  crot  to,  Xanc}'.    Quick! 

the    latch    is    Hfting.      Quick !    quick ! 

I'll  push  you.    No  ;  I'll  pull  you.    Here! 

[Pulls  Nancy  dozi'?i  npo7i  the  floor, 

and  7'olls  her  under  the  bed ;  gets 

under  herself  j list  as  the  door  is 

pushed  open. 

Enter  Giles  Corey  iJi  great  excitement. 

Giles  {ru7ining  across  the  roo7n,  a7td  list- 
eni}ig  at  the  door  leadi7ig  to  the  cha77iber 
stairs).  Devil  take  them !  why  don't  they 
put  an  end  to  it  ?  Why  do  they  let  the 
poor  lass  be  set  upon  this  way  ?  Screech- 
ing so  you  can  hear  her  all  over  Salem 
Village  I  There  !  hear  that,  will  3'e  ?  Out 
upon  them  !  Widow  Hutchins  !  Widow 
Hutchins!  Can't  you  give  her  some 
physic?  Sha'n't  I  come  up  there  with 
my  musket  ?  Why  don't  they  find  out 
who  is  so  tormenting  her  and  chain  her 
up  in  prison  ?  'Tis  some  witch  or  other. 
Oh,  I'd  hang  her;  I'd  tie  the  rope  my- 
self.    Poor  lass  !  poor  lass  I 

[  The  door  is  pushed  ope7i,  and  Giles 
starts  back. 


E?iter  John   Hathorne,  Minister  Parris, 
and  Widow   Hutchins. 

Gilt's.  Good  -  day,  Widow  Hutchins. 
Shall  I  go  up  there  with  my  musket  ? 

Pa>ris.  I  trow  there  be  too  many  of 
thy  household  up  there  now, 

Giles.  I'd  lay  about  me  till  I  hit  some 
of  'em.  I'll  warrant  I  would.  Oh,  the 
poor  lass  !  hear  that ! 

Parris.  She  is  a  grievous  case. 

Giles.  I  heard  the  screeches  out  in  the 
wood,  and  I  ran  in  thinking  I  might  do 
somewhat,  I  would  Martha  were  here, 
I'll  be  bound  she'd  laugh  and  scoff  at  it 
no  longer  ! 

Hathorne.  Laugh  and  scofif,  say  3'ou  ? 

Giles.  That  she  doth,  Martha  acts  as 
if  the  devil  were  in  her  about  it.  She 
doth  nothing  but  laugh  at  and  make 
light  of  the  afflicted  children,  and  saith 
there  be  no  witches.  She  would  not 
even  believe  'twas  aught  out  of  the 
common  when  our  ox  and  cat  were 
took  strangely.  If  she  were  herself  a 
witch  she  could  be  no  more  stiff- 
necked. 


Par7'zs.  Doth  she  go  out  after  night- 
fall? 

Giles.  That  she  doth,  in  spite  of  all 
I  can  say.  She  hath  no  fear  that 
an  honest  gospel  woman  should  have 
in  these  times.  She  went  out  last 
night,  and  I  was  so  angered  that  I 
charged  her  with  galloping  a  broom- 
stick home. 

HatJionie.  Did  she  deny  it  } 

Giles.  She  laughed  as  she  is  wont  to 
do.  She  even  made  a  jest  on't,  when  I 
could  not  when  I  would  go  to  prayer, 
and  the  words  stayed  beyond  my  wits.  I 
would  she  could  be  here  now,  and  hear 
this! 

Parj'is.  Perchance  she  doth. 

Giles,  ril  warrant  she'd  lose  somewhat 
of  her  stiff- neckedness.  Hear  that! 
Can't  ye  chain  up  the  witch  that's  tor- 
menting the  poor  lass  ?  Is't  Goody 
Osborn  } 

Hathonie.  The  witch  will  be  chained 
and  in  prison  before  nightfall.  Come, 
Minister  Parris,  we  can  do  no  good  by 
abiding  longer  here.  Methinks  we  have 
sufficient  testimony. 


Parris.  Verily  the  devil  hath  played 
into  our  hands.  \_Tkey  turn  to  leave. 

Hiitchins.  Oh,  your  worships,  ye  will 
use  good  speed  for  the  sake  of  my  poor 
child. 

Giles.  Ay,  be  speedy  about  it.  Put  the 
baggage  in  prison  as  soon  as  may  be,  and 
load  her  down  well  with  irons. 

HatJiorne.  I  will  strive  to  obey  your 
commands  well,  Goodman  Corey.  Good- 
day,  Widow  Hutchins;  your  daughter 
shall  soon  find  relief, 

Parris.  Good-day,  Widow  Hutchins, 
and  be  of  good  cheer. 

[Exeicnt  Hathorne  a/id  Parris, 
while  Widow  Hutchins  courte- 
sies. 

Giles.  Well,  I  must  even  be  going  too. 
I  have  my  cattle  to  water.  I  but  bolted 
in  when  I  heard  the  poor  lass  screech, 
thinking  I  might  do  somewhat.  But 
good  Master  Hathorne  will  see  to  it. 
Hear  that !  Do  ye  go  up  to  her,  widow, 
and  mix  her  up  a  bowl  of  yarb  tea,  till 
they  put  the  trollop  in  prison.  Pm  off 
to  water  my  cattle,  then  devil  take  me 
if  I  don't  give  the  sheriffs  a  hand  if  they 


need  it.     Goody  Osborn's  house  is  nigh 
mine.     Good-day,  widow.      [Exit  Giles. 

Hut  chins  {laughing).  Give  the  sheriffs 
a  hand,  will  he  ?  Perchance  he  will,  but 
I  doubt  me  if  'tis  not  a  fisted  one.  He 
sets  his  life  by  Goody  Corey,  however  he 
rate  her.  {A  scream  fro?n  aboi'cof"  Moth- 
er !  Mother!")  Yes,  Ann,  I'm  coming, 
I'm  coming!  [Exit. 

Phoebe  {crawls  out  from  under  the  bed). 
Now,  Nancy,  we've  got  a  chance  to  run. 
Come  out,  quick !  Oh,  if  Uncle  Corey 
had  caught  us  here  ! 

Nancy.  I  can't  get  out.  Oh !  oh ! 
The  rheumatiz  stiffened  me  so  I  couldn't 
double  up,  and  now  it  has  stiffened  me 
so  I  can't  undouble.  No,  'tis  not  rheu- 
matiz, 'tis  Goody  Bishop  has  bewitched 
me.     I  can't  get  out. 

PhoBbe.  You  must,  Nancy,  or  some 
body  '11  come  and  catch  us.  Here,  I'll 
pull  you  out. 

[  Tugs  at  Nancy's  arms,  and  drags 
her  out,  groaning. 

N'aiicy.  Here  I  am  out,  but  I  can't  un- 
double. I'll  have  to  go  home  on  all- 
fours  like  a  cat.     Oh  I  oh  ! 


Phoebe.  Give  me  your  hands  and  I'll 
pull  you  up.  Think  you  'tis  witchcraft, 
Nancy  ? 

Nancy.  I  know  'tis.  Tis  Goody  Bish- 
op in  her  fine  silk  hood  afflicts  me. 
Oh,  massy ! 

Phcebe.  There,  you  are  up,  Xancy. 

Nancy.  I  ain't  half  undoubled. 

Phoebe.  You  can  walk  so,  can't  you, 
Nancy.''  Oh,  come,  quick!  I  think  I 
hear  somebody  on  the  stairs.  {Catches 
tip  her  doll  and  seizes  Nancy's  hand.) 
Quick !  quick ! 

Nancy.  I  tell  ye  I  can't  go  quick  ;  I 
ain't  undoubled  enough.  Devil  take 
Goody  Bishop ! 

[^Exzf,   hobbling    and  bent    almost 
double,  Phoebe  urging  her  along. 

Curtain  falls. 


ACT  III. 

The  Meeting-Jioiise  in  Salem  Village.  En- 
ter People  of  Salem  Village  and  take 
seats.  The  Afflicted  Girls,  aniojigwhom 
are  Ann  Hutchins  and  Mercy  Lewis, 
occupy  the  front  seats.  Nancy  Fox  a?id 
Phoebe.  Enter  the  magistrates  John 
Hathorne  atid  Jonathan  Corwin  with 
Minister  Parris,  escorted  by  the  Marshal, 
Aids,  and  four  Constables.  They  place 
themselves  at  a  long  table  infro7it  of  the 
pulpit. 

Hathorne  {rising).  We  are  now  pre- 
pared to  enter  upon  the  examination. 
We  invoke  the  blessing  of  God  upon  our 
proceedings,  and  call  upon  the  Marshal 
to  produce  the  bodies  of  the  accused. 

{Exeunt  Marshal  and  Constables. 
Afflicted  Girls  twist  about  ajid 
groan.  Great  excitement  among 
the  people. 

Enter  Marshal  and  Constables  leading 
Martha  a?id  Olive  Corey  i7i   chains. 


QW^sfoUoius.  The  prisoners  are  placed 
facing  the  assembly,  with  the  Consta- 
bles holding  their  hands.  Giles  stands 
near.  The  Afflicted  Girls  make  a  great 
clamor. 

Ann.  Oh,  they  are  tormenting  I  They 
will  be  the  death  of  me  I  I  will  not  I  I 
will  not  I 

Giles.  Hush  your  noise,  will  ye,  Ann 
Hutchins  I 

Parr  is.  Peace,  Goodman  Corey  ! 

Hat  home.  Martha  Corey,  you  are  now 
in  the  hands  of  authority.  Tell  me  now 
why  you  hurt  these  persons. 

Martha.  I  do  not.  I  pray  your  wor- 
ships give  me  leave  to  go  to  prayer. 

Hathorne.  We  have  not  sent  for  you  to 
go  to  prayer,  but  to  confess  that  you  are 
a  witch. 

Martha.  I  am  no  witch.  I  am  a  gos- 
pel woman.  There  is  no  such  thing  as 
a  witch.  Shall  I  confess  that  I  am  what 
doth  not  exist  ?  It  were  not  only  a  lie, 
but  a  fool's  lie. 

Mercy.  There  is  a  black  man  whisper- 
ing in  her  ears. 


46 


Hathorjie.  What  saith  the  black  man 
to  you,  goodwife  ? 

Martha.  I  pray  your  worships  to  ask 
the  maid.  Perchance,  since  she  sees 
him,  she  can  also  hear  what  he  saith 
better  than  I. 

Hathorne.  Why  do  you  not  tell  how 
the  devil  comes  in  your  shape  and  hurts 
these  maids  ? 

Martha.  How  can  I  tell  how  ?  I  was 
never  acquaint  with  the  ways  of  the 
devil.  I  leave  it  to  those  wise  maids 
who  are  so  well  acquaint  to  tell  how. 
Perchance  he  hath  whispered  it  in  their 
ears. 

Afflicted  Girls.  Oh,  there  is  a  yellow 
bird  !  There  is  a  yellow  bird  perched 
on  her  head  ! 

Hathorne.  What  say  you  to  that, 
Goodwife  Corey  ? 

Martha.  W^hat  can  I  say  to  such  folly  ? 

Hathorne.  Constables,  let  go  the  hands 
of  Martha  Corey. 

[  The  Constables  let  go  her  hands, 
and  immediately  there  is  a  great 
oiftcry  from  the  Afflicted  Girls. 

Afflicted  Girls.  She  pinches  us  I    Hold 


;    ^ 


' ''   ^""^^^ 


her  hands  I    Hold  her  hands  again  I    Oh  I 
oh! 

An7i.  She  is  upon  me  again  I  She  digs 
her  fingers  into  my  throat !  Hold  her 
hands  !  Hold  her  hands  !  She  will  be 
the  death  of  me  I 

Gz'les.  Devil  take  ye,  ye  lying  trollop ! 
'Tis  a  pity  somebody  had  not  been  the 
death  of  ye  before  this  happened  ! 

Hathor7ie.  Constables,  hold  the  hands 
of  the  accused. 

[Constables  obey,  and  at  once  the 
afflicted  are  quiet. 

Hathorne.  Goodwife  Corey,  what  do 
you  say  to  this  ? 

Martha.  I  see  with  whom  we  have 
to  do.  May  the  Lord  have  mercy 
upon  us! 

Hathor7ie.  What  say  you  to  the  charges 
that  your  husband,  Giles  Corey,  hath 
many  a  time  brought  against  you  in  the 
presence  of  witnesses — that  you  hinder- 
ed him  when  he  would  go  to  prayer, 
causing  thewords  to  go  from  him  strange- 
ly ;  that  you  were  out  after  nightfall, 
and  did  ride  home  on  a  broomstick; 
and  that  you  scoffed  at  these  maids  and 


43 


their  affliction,  as  if  you  were  a  witch 
yourself  ? 

Giles.  I  said  not  so  !  Martha,  I  said 
it  not  so  ! 

Hathonie.  What  say  you  to  your  hus- 
band's charge  that  you  did  afflict  his  ox 
and  cat,  causing  his  ox  to  fall  in  the  yard, 
and  the  cat  to  be  strangely  sick  ? 

Giles.  Devil  take  the  ox  and  the  cat! 
I  said  not  that  she  did  afflict  them. 

HatJi07'ne.  Peace,  Goodman  Corey; 
you  are  now  in  court. 

Martha.  I  say,  if  a  gospel  woman  is 
to  be  hung  as  a  witch  for  every  stumbling 
ox  and  sick  cat,  'tis  setting  a  high  value 
upon  oxen  and  cats. 

Giles.  I  would  mine  had  all  been 
knocked  in  the  head,  lass,  and  me  too  ! 

Hathorne.  Peace !  Ann  Hutchins, 
what  saw  you  when  Good  wife  Corey 
went  home  with  j-ou  through  the  wood  ? 

Ann.  Hold  fast  her  hands,  I  pray,  or 
she  will  kill  me.  The  trees  were  so  full 
of  yellow  birds  that  it  sounded  as  if  a 
mighty  wind  passed  over  them,  and  the 
birds  lit  on  Goody  Corey's  head.  And 
black  beasts  ran  alongside  through  the 


bushes,  which  did  break  and  crackle, 
and  they  were  at  Goody  Corey  and  me 
to  go  to  the  witch  dance  on  the  hill. 
And  they  said  to  bring  Olive  Corey  and 
Paul  Bayley.  And  Goody  Corey  told 
them  how  she  and  Olive  would  presently 
come,  but  not  Paul,  for  he  never  would 
sign  the  book,  not  even  though  Olive 
trapped  him  by  the  arts  they  had  taught 
her.  And  Goody  Corey  showed  me  the 
book  then,  and  besought  me  to  sign,  and 
go  with  her  to  the  dance.  And  when  I 
would  not,  she  and  Olive  also  afflicted 
me  so  grievously  that  I  thought  I  could 
not  live,  and  have  done  so  ever  since. 

Hat  home.  What  say  you  to  this,  Good- 
wife  Corey  ? 

Martha.  I  pray  your  worship  believe 
not  what  she  doth  charge  against  my 
daughter. 

Corzuiii.  Mercy  Lewis,  do  you  say  that 
you  have  seen  both  of  the  accused  af- 
flicting Ann  Hutchins  ? 

Mercy.  Yes,  your  worship,  many  a 
time  have  I  seen  them  pressing  her  to 
sign  the  book,  and  afflicting  when  she 
would  not. 

4 


Corwin.  How  looked  the  book  ? 

Mercy.  'Twas  black,  your  worship, 
with  blood-red  clasps. 

Corwin.  Read  you  the  names  in  it  ? 

Mercy.  I  strove  to,  your  worship,  but 
I  got  not  through  the  C's;  there  were 
too  many  of  them. 

Hathorne.  Let  the  serving  -  woman, 
Nancy  Fox,  come  hither. 

[Nancy  Fox  makes  her  luay  to  the 
front. 

Hathorne.  Nancy,  I  have  heard  that 
your  mistress  afflicts  you. 

Nancy.  That  she  doth. 

Hathorne.  In  what  manner.^ 

Nancy.  She  sendeth  me  to  bed  at  first 
candlelight  as  though  I  were  a  babe  ;  she 
maketh  me  to  wear  a  woollen  petticoat 
in  winter-time,  though  I  was  not  brought 
up  to't ;  and  she  will  never  let  me  drink 
more  than  one  mug  of  cider  at  a  sitting, 
and  I  nigh  eighty,  and  needing  on't  to 
warm  my  bones. 

Corwin.  Hath  she  ever  afflicted  you  } 
Your  replies  be  not  to  the  point, 
woman. 

Nancy.  Your  worship,  she  hath  never 


had  any  respect  for  my  understanding, 
and  that  hath  greatly  afflicted  me. 

Hat  home.  Hath  she  ever  shown  you  a 
book  to  sign  ? 

Nancy.  Verily  she  hath  ;  and  when  1 
would  not,  hath  afflicted  me  with  sore 
pains  in  all  my  bones,  so  I  cried  out,  on 
getting  up,  when  I  had  set  awhile. 

Hathorne.  Hath  your  mistress  a  fa- 
miliar? 

Nancy.  Hey? 

Hathorne.  Have  you  ever  seen  any 
strange  thing  with  her  ? 

Nancy.  She  hath  a  yellow  bird  which 
sits  on  her  cap  when  she  churns. 

Hathor7ie.  What  else  have  you  seen 
with  her  ? 

Na7icy.  A  thing  like  a  cat,  only  it  went 
on  two  legs.  It  clawed  up  the  chimbly, 
and  the  soot  fell  down,  and  Goody  Corey 
set  me  to  sweeping  on't  up  on  the  Lord's 
day. 

Giles.  Out  upon  ye,  ye  lying  old 
jade ! 

Hathorne.  Silence  !  Nancy,  you  may 
go  to  your  place.  Phoebe  Morse,  come 
hither. 


[Phoebe  Morse  approaches  ivith 
her  apron  over  her  face,  sobbmg. 
She  has  her  doll  imder  her  arm- 

Hafhorne.  Cease  weeping,  child.  Tell 
me  how  your  aunt  Corey  treats  you. 
Hath  she  ever  taught  you  otherwise  than 
you  have  learned  in  your  catechism  } 

Phoebe  (weeping).  I  don't  know.  Oh, 
Aunt  Corey,  I  didn't  mean  to  !  I  took 
the  pins  out  of  my  doll,  I  did.  Don't 
whip  me  for  it, 

Hatho?'7ie.  What  doll  ?  What  mean 
you,  child  .^ 

Phcebe.  I  don't  know.  I  didn't  stick 
them  in  so  very  deep.  Aunt  Corey  I 
Don't  let  them  hang  me  for  it ! 

Hathorne.  Did  your  aunt  Corey  teach 
you  to  stick  pins  into  your  doll  to  tor- 
ment folk  ? 

Phoebe  {sobbiiig  co?tvulsively),  I  don't 
know  !  I  don't  know !  Oh,  Aunt  Corey, 
don't  let  them  hang  me !  Olive,  you 
won't  let  them  !     Oh  !  oh  ! 

Corwzn.  Methinks  'twere  as  well  to 
m.ake  an  end  of  this. 

Hathorne.  There  seemeth  to  me  im- 
portant substance  under  this   froth   of 


tears.     {To  Phoebe.)     Give  me  thy  doll, 
child. 

Phcebe  {clutching  the  doll).  Oh,  my 
doll !  my  doll !  Oh,  Aunt  Corey,  don't 
let  them  have  my  doll  I 

Martha.  Peace,  dear  child !  Thou 
must  not  begrudge  it.  Their  worships 
be  in  sore  distress  just  now  to  play  with 
dolls. 

Parris.  Give  his  worship  the  doll, 
child.  Hast  thou  not  been  taught  to 
respect  them  in  authority  ? 

[Phoebe  gives  the  doll  to  Hathorne, 
whimpering.  Hathorne,  Cor- 
win,  and  Parris  put  their  heads 
together  over  it. 

Hathorjze  {holding  tip  the  doll).  There 
be  verily  many  pins  in  this  image.  Good- 
wife  Corey,  what  know  you  of  this  ? 

Martha.  Your  worship,  such  a  weighty 
matter  is  beyond  my  poor  knowledge. 

Hathorne.  Know  you  whence  the 
child  got  this  image  } 

Martha.  Yes,  your  worship.  I  my- 
self made  it  out  of  a  piece  of  an  old 
hom.espun  blanket  for  the  child  to  play 
with.      I    stuffed    it    with    lamb's   wool. 


and  sewed  some  green  ravellings  on  its 
head  for  hair.  I  made  it  a  coat  out  of 
my  copperas-colored  petticoat,  and  col- 
ored its  lips  and  cheeks  with  pokeberries. 

Hathorne.  Did  you  teach  the  child  to 
stick  in  these  pins  wherewith  to  tor- 
ment folk  ? 

Martha.  It  availeth  me  naught  to  say 
no,  your  worship. 

Mercy  {screa7)is).  Oh,  a  sharp  pain 
shoots  througti  me  when  I  look  at  the 
image  !     'Tis  through  my  arms  !     Oh  ! 

Hathorne  (^examinzjig  the  doll).  There 
is  a  pin  in  the  arms. 

A7171.  I  feel  sharp  pains,  like  pins,  in 
my  face  ;  oh,  'tis  dreadful  I 

Hathorne  {exainining  the  doll).  There 
are  pins  in  the  face. 

Pha^be  {sobbing).  No,  no  !  Those  are 
the  pins  I  stuck  in  for  Aunt  Corey. 
Don't  let  them  hang  me.  Aunt  Corey. 

Parris.  That  is  sufficient.  She  has 
confessed. 

Hathoriie.  Yes,  methinks  the  child 
hath  confessed  whether  she  would  or 
no.  Goodwife  Corey,  Phoebe  hath  now 
plainly  said  that  she  did  stick  these  pins 


in  this  image  for  you.     What  have  you 
to  say  ? 

Martha  {coiirtesying).  Your  worship, 
the  matter  is  beyond  my  poor  speech. 

[Hathorne  tosses  the  doll  on  the  ta- 
ble, Phoebe  watching  anxiously. 

Hathorne.  Go  to  your  place,  child. 

Phoebe.  I  want  my  doll. 

P arris.  Go  to  thy  place  as  his  worship 
bids  thee,  and  think  on  the  precepts  in 
thy  catechism.    [Phoebe  returns  sobbing. 

Afflicted  Girls.  Oh,  Goody  Corey  turns 
her  eyes  upon  us !  Bid  her  turn  her 
eyes  away ! 

Ann.  Oh,  I  see  a  black  cat  sitting  on 
Goody  Corey's  shoulder,  and  his  eyes 
are  like  coals.  Now,  now,  he  looks  at 
me  when  Goody  Corey  does !  Look 
away  !  look  away  !  Oh,  I  am  blind  !  I 
am  blind  !  Sparks  are  coming  into  my 
eyes  from  Goody  Corey's.  Make  her 
turn  her  eyes  away,  your  worships  ;  make 
her  turn  her  eyes  away  ! 

Hathor7ie.  Goody  Core)^  fix  your  eyes 
upon  the  floor,  and  look  not  at  these 
poor  children  whom  you  so  afflict. 

Martha.  May  the  Lord  open  the  eyes 


56 


of  the  magistrates  and  ministers,  and  give 
them  sight  to  discover  the  guilty! 

Parris.  Why  do  5^ou  not  confess  that 
you  are  a  witch  ? 

Martha  {with  sudden  fervor).  I  am 
no  witch.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  a 
witch.  Oh,  ye  worshipful  magistrates. 
ye  ministers  and  good  people  of  Salem 
Village,  I  pray  ye  hear  me  speak  for  a 
moment's  space.  Listen  not  to  this  tes- 
timony of  distracted  children,  this  raving 
of  a  poor  lovesick,  jealous  maid,  who 
should  be  treated  softly,  but  not  let  to 
do  this  mischief.  Ye,  being  in  your  fair 
wits  and  well  acquaint  with  your  own 
knowledge,  must  know,  as  I  know,  that 
there  be  no  witches.  Wherefore  would 
God  let  Satan  after  such  wise  into  a  com- 
pany of  His  elect?  Hath  He  not  guard 
over  His  own  precinct  ?  Can  He  not 
keep  it  from  the  power  of  the  Adversary 
as  well  as  we  from  the  savages  }  Why 
keep  ye  the  scouts  out  in  the  fields  if 
the  Lord  God  hath  so  forsaken  us  }  Call 
in  the  scouts  !  If  we  believe  in  witches, 
we  believe  not  only  great  wickedness, 
but  great  folly  of  the  Lord  God.    Think 


ye  in  good  faith  that  I  verily  stand  here 
with  a  black  cat  on  my  shoulder  and  a 
yellow  bird  on  my  head  ?  Why  do  ye 
not  see  them  as  well  as  these  maids  ?  I 
would  that  ye  might  if  they  be  there. 
Black  cat,  yellow  bird,  if  ye  be  upon  my 
shoulder  and  my  head,  as  these  maids 
say,  I  command  ye  to  appear  to  these 
magistrates  !  Otherwise,  if  I  have  sign- 
ed the  book,  as  these  maids  say,  I  swear 
unto  ye  that  I  will  cross  out  my  name, 
and  will  serve  none  but  the  God  Al- 
mighty. Most  worshipful  magistrates, 
see  ye  the  black  cat  ?  See  ye  any  yellow 
bird  ?  Why  are  ye  not  afflicted  as  well 
as  these  maids,  when  I  turn  my  eyes 
upon  ye  ?  I  pray  you  to  consider  that. 
I  am  no  saint ;  I  wot  well  that  I  have 
but  poorly  done  the  will  of  the  Lord 
who  made  me,  but  I  am  a  gospel  woman 
and  keep  to  the  faith  according  to  my 
poor  m.easure.  Can  I  be  a  gospel  wom- 
an and  a  witch  too  ?  I  have  never  that 
I  know  of  done  aught  of  harm  whether 
to  man  or  beast.  I  have  spared  not  my- 
self nor  minded  mine  own  infirmities  in 
tasks  for  them  that  belonged  to  me,  nor 


for  any  neighbor  that  had  need.  I  say 
not  this  to  set  myself  up,  but  to  prove 
to  you  that  I  can  be  no  witch,  and  my 
daughter  can  be  no  witch.  Have  I  not 
watched  nights  without  number  with  the 
sick.^  Have  I  not  washed  and  dressed 
new-born  babes  .^  Have  I  not  helped 
to  make  the  dead  ready  for  burial,  and 
sat  by  them  until  the  cock  crew  ?  Have 
I  ever  held  back  when  there  was  need 
of  me  }  But  I  say  not  this  to  set  myself 
up.  Have  I  not  been  in  the  meeting- 
house every  Lord's  day.'^  Have  I  ever 
stayed  away  from  the  sacrament  ?  Have 
I  not  gone  in  sober  apparel,  nor  wasted 
my  husband's  substance?  Have  I  not 
been  diligent  in  my  household,  and  spun 
and  w^ove  great  store  of  linen  ?  Are  not 
my  floors  scoured,  my  brasses  bright, 
and  my  cheese-room  well  filled  ?  Look 
at  me  !     Can  I  be  a  witch  ? 

Au^i.  A  black  man  hath  been  whisper- 
ing in  her  ear,  telling  her  what  to  say. 

Hathorne.  What  say  you  to  that. 
Goody  } 

Martha.  I  say  if  that  be  so,  he  told 
me   not  to  his   own  advantage.     I  see 


with  whom  I   have  to  do.     I  pray  you 
give  me  leave  to  go  to  prayer. 

HatJiorne.  You  are  not  here  to  go  to 
prayer.  I  much  fear  that  your  many 
prayers  have  been  to  your  master,  the 
devil.  Constables,  bring  forward  the 
body  of  the  accused. 

[Afflicted  Girls  shriek.  Constables 
lead  Olive  forward.  Martha  is 
led  to  07ie  side. 

Martha.  Be  of  good  cheer,  dear  child. 

Giles.  Yes,  be  not  afraid  of  them,  lass  ; 
thy  father  is  here. 

Hathor7ie.  Silence  !  Olive  Corey,  why 
do  you  so  afflict  these  other  maids  } 

Olive.  I  do  not,  your  worship. 

Ami.  She  is  looking  at  me.  Oh,  bid 
her  look  away,  or  she  will  kill  me  ! 

Olive.  Oh,  Ann,  I  do  not!  What 
mean  you,  dear  Ann  ? 

Hathome.  I  charge  you,  Olive  Corey, 
keep  your  eyes  upon  the  floor. 

Giles.  Look  where  you  please,  lass, 
and  thy  old  father  will  uphold  thee  in 
it ;  and  I  only  wish  your  blue  eyes  could 
shoot  pins  into  the  lying  hussies. 

Haihorne.  Goodman,    an    ye    disturb 


6o 


the  peace  again,  ye  shall  be  removed 
from  court.  Ann  Hutchins,  you  have 
seen  this  maid  hurt  you  ? 

An7t.  Many  a  time  she  hath  hurt  me 
nigh  to  death. 

Olive.  Oh,  Ann,  I  hurt  thee  } 

Ann.  There  is  a  flock  of  yellow  birds 
around  her  head. 

[Olive  moves  her  head  involunta- 
rily, and  looks  up. 

Afflicted  Girls.  See  her  look  at  them  ! 

Hathor7ie.  What  say. you  to  that,  Ol- 
ive.^ 

Olive.  I  did  not  see  them. 

Hathorne.  Ann  Hutchins,  did  you  see 
this  maid  walking  in  the  wood  with  a 
black  man  last  week  } 

Ajin.  Yes,  your  worship. 

Hathorne.  How  did  he  go  } 

Ann.  In  black  clothes,  and  he  had 
white  hair. 

Hathorne.  How  went  the  accused  ? 

Ann.  She  went  in  her  flowered  petti- 
coat, and  the  flowers  stood  out,  and  smelt 
like  real  ones;  her  kerchief  shone  like  a 
cobweb  in  the  grass  m  the  morning,  and 
gold  sparks  flew  out  of  her  hair.    Goody 


Corey  fixed  her  up  so  with  her  devilish 
arts  to  trap  Paul  Bayley. 

Hathome.  What  mean  you  ? 

An7i.  To  trap  the  black  man,  your 
worship.  I  knew  not  what  I  said,  I 
was  in  such  torment. 

Hathome.  Olive  Corey,did  your  mother 
ever  so  change  your  appearance  by  her 
arts? 

Olive.  My  mother  hath  no  arts,  your 
worship. 

Aim.  Her  cheeks  were  redder  than 
was  common,  and  her  eyes  shone  like 
stars. 

Hathome.  Olive,  did  your  mother  so 
change  your  looks. 

Olive.  No,  your  worship;  I  do  not 
know  what  Ann  may  mean.  I  fear  she 
be  ill. 

Hathor7ie.  Mercy  Lewis,  did  you  see 
Olive  Corey  with  the  black  man  } 

Me7-cy.  Yes,  your  worship ;  and  she 
called  out  to  me  to  go  with  them  to  the 
dance,  and  I  should  have  the  black  man 
for  a  partner;  and  when  I  would  not 
she  afflicted  me,  pulling  my  hair  and 
pinching  me. 


Hathome.  How  appeared  she  to  you  ? 

Mercy.  She  was  dressed  hke  a  puppet, 
finer  than  I  had  ever  seen  her. 

Hathome.  Olive,  what  did  you  wear 
when  you  walked  with  the  black  man  ? 

Olive.  Your  worship,  I  walked  with  no 
black  man. 

AiDi.  There  he  is  now,  standing  behind 
her,  looking  over  her  shoulder. 

Hathome.  What  say  you  to  that,01ive  } 

Olive  {looking  i7i  terror  over  her 
shoulder).  I  see  no  one.  I  pray  you, 
let  my  father  stand   near  me. 

Parris.  Nay;  the  black  man  is  enough 
for  you. 

Giles  {forcing  his  way  to  his  daughter'). 
Here  I  be,  lass ;  and  it  will  go  hard  if  the 
hussies  can  see  the  black  man  and  old 
Giles  in  one  place.  Where  be  the  black 
man  now,  jades? 

Hathome  {angrily).  Marshal ! 

Coriuin  {interposing).  Nay,  good  Mas- 
ter Hathorne,  let  Goodman  Corey  keep 
his  standing.  The  maid  looks  near 
swooning,  and  albeit  his  manner  be 
rude,  3^et  his  argument  hath  somewhat 
of  force.     In  truth,  he  and  the  black  man 


63 


cannot  occupy  one  place.  Mercy  Lewis, 
see  you  now  this  black  man  any- 
where ? 

Mercy.  Yes,  your  worship. 

Corwin.  Where  } 

Mercy.  Whispering  in  your  worship's 
ear. 

P arris.  May  the  Lord  protect  his  mag- 
istrates from  the  wiles  of  Satan,  and  main- 
tain them  in  safety  for  the  weal  of  his 
afflicted  people! 

Hathor7ie.  This  be  going  too  far.  This 
be  presumption  !  Who  of  you  now  see 
the  black  man  whispering  to  the  wor- 
shipful esquire  Jonathan  Corwin  ? 

Mercy.  He  is  gone  now  out  of  the 
meeting-house.  'Twas  but  for  a  moment 
I  saw  him. 

Corwin.  Speak  up,  children.  Did  any 
other  of  ye  see  the  black  man  whispering 
to  me  ? 

Afflicted  Girls.  No !  no !  no  ! 

Corwin.  Mercy  Lewis,  you  say  of  a 
truth  you  saw  him  ? 

Mercy.  Your  worship,  it  may  have 
been  Minister  Parris's  shadow  falling 
across  the  platform. 


64 


Corwin.  This  is  but  levity,  and  hath 
naught  to  do  with  the  trial. 

Hathorne.  We  will  proceed  with  the 
examination.  Widow  Eunice  Hutchins, 
produce  the  cape. 

[Widow  Hutchins  comes  forward, 
holdmg  the  cape  by  a  cor7ter. 
Hathorne.  Put  it  over  your  daughter's 
shoulders. 

Hutchins.  Oh,  your  worships,  I  pray 
you  not !     It  will  kill  her ! 

Ann.  Oh,  do  not!  do  not!  It  will  kill 
me !  Oh,  mother,  do  not !  Oh,  your 
worships!     Oh,  Minister  Parris! 

Parris.  Why  put  the  maid  to  this 
needless  agony  } 

Corwm.  Put  the  cape  over  her 
shoulders. 

[Widow  Hutchins  approaches  Ann 

hesitatingly,  and  throws  the  cape 

over  her  shoulders.     Ann  siiiks 

upo7i  the  floor,  shriekiftg. 

Ann.    Take  it   off!     Take  it  off!     It 

burns!     It  burns!     Take  it  off!     Have 

mercy  !     I  shall  die  !     I  shall  die  ! 

Hathorne.  Take  off  the  cape ;  that  is 
enough.     Olive  Corey,  what  say  you  to 


65 


this?     This  is  the  cape  you  gave  Ann 
Hutchins. 

Olive.  Oh,  mother  !  mother  I 
Martha  {pushing forward).  Nay,  I  will 
speak  again.  Ye  shall  not  keep  me  from 
it ;  ye  shall  not  send  me  out  of  the  meet- 
ing-house !  {The  afflicted  cry  out.)  Peace, 
or  I  will  afflict  ye  in  earnest !  I  ivill 
speak  !  If  I  be  a  witch,  as  ye  say,  then 
ye  have  some  reason  to  fear  me,  even  ye 
most  worshipful  magistrates  and  minis- 
ters. It  might  happen  to  ye  even  to  fall 
upon  the  floor  in  torment,  and  it  would 
ill  accord  with  your  offices.  Ye  shall 
hear  me.  I  speak  no  more  for  myself — 
ye  may  go  hang  me — I  speak  for  my 
child.  Ye  shall  not  hang  her,  or  judg- 
ment will  come  upon  ye.  Ye  know  there 
is  no  guile  in  her  ;  it  were  monstrous  to 
call  her  a  witch.  It  were  less  blasphemy 
to  call  her  an  angel  than  a  witch,  and  ye 
know  it.  Ye  know  it,  all  ye  maids  she 
hath  played  with  and  done  her  little 
kindnesses  to,  ye  who  would  now  go 
hang  her.  That  cape — that  cape,  most 
worshipful  magistrates,  did  the  dear 
child  earn   with   her  own  little  hands. 


that  she  might  give  it  to  Ann,  whom 
she  loved  so  much.  Knowing,  as  she 
did,  that  Ann  was  poor,  and  able  to 
have  but  little  bravery  of  apparel,  it  was 
often  on  her  mind  to  give  her  somewhat 
of  her  own,  albeit  that  was  but  scanty ; 
and  she  hath  toiled  overtimes  at  her 
wheel  all  winter,  and  sold  the  yarn  in 
Salem,  and  so  gained  a  penny  at  a  time 
wherewithal  to  buy  that  cape  for  Ann. 
And  now  will  it  hang  her,  the  dear 
child  ? 

Dear  Ann,  dost  thou  not  remember 
how  thou  and  my  Olive  have  spent 
days  together,  and  slept  together  many 
a  night,  and  lain  awake  till  dawn  talk- 
ing? Dost  thou  not  remember  how 
thou  couldst  go  nowhere  without  Olive, 
nor  she  without  thee,  and  how  no  little 
junketing  were  complete  to  the  one  were 
the  other  not  there  ?  Dost  thou  not  re- 
member how  Olive  wept  when  thy 
father  died  ?  Mercy  Lewis,  dost  thou 
not  remember  how  my  Olive  came  over 
and  helped  thee  in  thy  work  that  time 
thou  wert  ailing,  and  how  she  lent  thee 
her  shoes  to  walk  to  Salem  ? 


67 


Oh,  dear  children,  oh,  maids,  who 
have  been  playmates  and  friends  with 
my  dear  child,  ye  will  not  do  her  this 
harm  !  Do  ye  not  know  that  she  hath 
never  harmed  ye,  and  would  die  first  ? 
Think  of  the  time  when  this  sickness, 
that  is  nigh  to  madness,  shall  have  passed 
over,  and  all  is  quiet  again.  Then  will 
ye  sit  in  the  meeting-house  of  a  Lord's 
day,  and  look  over  at  the  place  where 
my  poor  child  was  w^ont  to  sit  listening 
in  her  little  Sabbath  best,  and  ye  will  see 
her  no  more,  but  will  say  to  yourselves 
that  ye  have  murdered  her.  And  then  of 
a  week-day  ye  will  see  her  no  more  spin- 
ning at  her  v/heel  in  the  doorway,  nor 
tending  the  flowers  in  her  garden.  She 
will  come  smiling  in  at  your  doors  no 
more,  nor  walk  the  village  street,  and  ye 
will  always  see  where  she  is  not,  and 
know  that  ye  have  murdered  her.  Oh, 
poor  children,  ye  are  in  truth  young,  and 
your  minds,  I  doubt  not,  sore  bewildered  ! 
If  I  have  spoken  harshly  to  ye,  I  pray  ye 
heed  it  not,  except  as  concerns  me.  I 
wot  well  that  I  am  now  done  with  this 
world,  and   I  feel  already  the  wind  that 


68 


bloweth  over  Gallows  Hill  in  my  face. 
But  consider  well  ere  ye  do  any  harm 
to  my  dear  child,  else  verily  the  day  will 
come  when  ye  will  be  more  to  be  pitied 
than  she.  Oh,  ye  will  not  harm  her ! 
Ye  will  take  back  your  accusation  !  Oh, 
worshipful  magistrates,  oh.  Minister  Par- 
ris,  I  pray  you  have  mercy  upon  this 
child !  I  pray  you  mercy  as  you  will 
need  mercy!  {^Falls  upon  her  knees. 

Hatkorne.  Rise,  woman  ;  it  is  not  now 
mercy,  but  justice  that  has  to  be  con- 
sidered. 

Parris.  In  straits  like  this  there  is  no 
mercy  in  the  divine  will.  Shall  mercy  be 
shown  Satan  ? 

Corwm.  Mercy  Lewis,  is  it  in  truth 
Olive  Corey  who  afflicts  you  } 

Mercy  {hesitating).  I  am  not  so  sure 
as  I  was. 

Other  Afflicted  Girls.  Nor  I !  nor  I ! 
nor  I ! 

Mercy.  Last  time  I  was  somewhat 
blinded  and  could  not  see  her  face. 
Methinks  she  was  something  taller  than 
Olive. 

Ann  {shrieks).  Oh,  Olive  is  upon  me ! 


69 


The  sun  shines  on  her  face !  I  see  her, 
she  is  choking  me  !     Oh  !  oh  ! 

Mercy  {to  Ann).  Hush !  If  she  be 
put  away  you'll  not  get  Paul  Bayley; 
I'll  tell  you  that  for  a  certainty,  Ann 
Hutchins. 

Ann.  Oh  !  oh  !  she  is  killing  me  ! 

Mercy.  I  see  her  naught ;  'tis  a  taller 
person  who  is  afflicting  Ann.  {To  Ann.) 
Leave  your  outcries  or  I  will  confess  to 
the  magistrates.  [Ann  becomes  quiet. 

Corwin.  Ann  Hutchins,  saw  you  in 
truth  Olive  Corey  afflicting  you  ? 

A7in  {sullenly').  It  might  have  been 
Goody  Corey. 

Corwin.  Mercy  Lewis,  saw  you  of  a 
certainty  Olive  Corey  walking  in  the 
wood  with  a  black  man? 

Mercy.  It  was  the  wane  of  the  moon  ; 
I  might  have  been  mistaken.  It  might 
have  been  Goody  Corey  ;  their  carriage 
is  somewhat  the  same. 

Corwin.  Give  me  the  cape,  Widow 
Hutchins.  (Widow  Hutchins  hands  him 
the  cape ;  he  puts  it  over  his  shoulders) 
Verily  I  perceive  no  great  inconvenience 
from  the  cape,  except  it  is  an  ill  fit. 


[  Takes  it  off  and  lays  it  on  the  table. 
The  two  magistrates  a7id  Minis- 
ter Parris  ivhisper  together. 

Hathorne.  Having  now  received  the 
testimony  of  the  afflicted  and  the  wit- 
nesses, and  duly  weighted  the  same  ac- 
cording to  our  judgment,  being  aided  to 
a  decision,  as  we  beHeve,  by  the  divine 
wisdom  which  we  have  invoked,  we  de- 
clare the  damsel  Olive  Corey  free  and 
quit  of  the  charges  against  her.  And 
Martha  Corey,  the  wife  of  Giles  Corey, 
of  Salem  Village,  we  commit  unto  the 
jail  in  Salem  until — 

Giles.  Send  Martha  to  Salem  jail ! 
Out  upon  ye  !  Why,  ye  be  gone  clean 
mad,  magistrates  and  ministers  and  all  I 
Send  ^lartha  to  jail !  Why,  she  must 
home  with  me  this  night  and  get  sup- 
per !  How  think  ye  I  am  going  to  live 
and  keep  my  house  ?  Load  Martha  down 
with  chains  in  jail !  Martha  a  witch ! 
Then,  by  the  Lord,  she  keeps  His  com- 
pany overmuch  for  one  of  her  trade,  for 
she  goes  to  prayer  forty  times  a  day. 
Martha  a  witch  !  Think  ye  Goodwife 
Martha  Corey  gallops  a  broomstick  to 


the  hill  of  a  night,  with  her  decent  pet- 
ticoats flapping  ?  Who  says  so  ?  I  would 
I  had  my  musket,  and  he'd  not  say  so 
twice  to  Giles  Corey.  And  let  him  say 
so  twice  as  'tis,  and  meet  my  fist,  an 
he  dares.  I  be  an  old  man,  but  I  could 
hold  my  own  in  my  day,  and  there  be 
some  of  me  left  yet.  Who  says  so  twice 
to  old  Giles  Corey  ?  Martha  a  witch ! 
Verily  she  could  not  stop  praying  long 
enough  to  dance  a  jig  through  with  the 
devil.  Martha  I  Out  upon  ye,  ye  lying 
devil's  tool  of  a  parson,  that  seasons 
murder  with  prayer  I  Out  upon  ye, 
ye  magistrates  I  your  hands  be  redder 
than  your  fine  trappings  I  Martha  a 
witch !  Ye  yourselves  be  witches,  and 
serving  Satan,  and  he  a-tickling  in  his 
sleeve  at  ye.  Send  Martha  in  chains  to 
Salem  jail,  ye  will,  will  ye  ?  {Forces  his 
way  to  Martha,  a7id  throws  his  arm 
around  her)  Be  not  afraid,  good  lass, 
thy  man  will  save  thee.  Thou  shalt  not 
go  to  jail !  I  say  thou  shalt  not !  I'll 
cut  my  way  through  a  whole  king's 
army  ere  thou  shalt.  I'll  raise  the  devil 
myself  ere  thou  shalt.  and  set  him  tooth 


and  claw  on  the  whole  brood  of  them. 
I'll —  {One  of  the  afflicted  shrieks.  Giles 
turns  tipon  them.)  Why,  devil  take  ye, 
ye  lying  hussies,  ye  have  done  this  !  Ye 
should  be  whipped  through  the  town  at 
the  tail  of  a  cart,  every  one  of  ye.  Ye 
ill-favored  little  jades,  puling  because  no 
man  will  have  ye,  and  putting  each  other 

up  to  this   d mischief  for  lack  of 

something  better.  Out  upon  ye,  ye 
little— 

Mercy  {juinping  tip  and  screa7ni7ig  i?i 
agony).  Oh,  Giles  Corey  is  upon  me! 
He  is  afflicting  me  grievously !  Oh,  I 
will  not !  Chain  him  !  chain  him  ! 
chain  him  ! 

A7t7i.  Oh,  this  is  worse  than  the  others! 
This  is  dreadful  !  He's  strangling  me ! 
I —  Oh — your — worships!  Oh — help! — 
help  !  [Fa Its  upon  the  floor. 

Afflicted  Girls.  Chain  him  !  chain  him  ! 

Hathorne.  Marshal,  take  Giles  Corey 
into  custody  and  chain  him, 

[Marshal  a7td  Constables  adva7tce. 

Tableau — Oirtain  falls. 


ACT   IV. 

The  living-roo7n  in  Giles  Corey's  Jiouse. 
Nancy  Fox  and  the  child  Phoebe  Morse 
sit  beside  the  hearth ;  each  has  her 
apron  over  her  face,  weeping. 

Phccbe  {sobbing').  I — want  my  Aunt  — 
Corey  -and  —  my  Uncle  Corey.  Why 
don't  they  come  }     Oh,  deary  me  ! 

[Phoebe  jumps  up  and  runs  to  the 
window. 

Nancy.  See  you  anybody  coming? 

Pho2be.  There  is  a  dame  in  a  black  hood 
coming  past  the  popple-trees.  Oh,  Nancy, 
come  quick  ;  see  if  it  be  Aunt  Corey  ! 

Nancy.  Where  be  my  spectacles  — 
where  be  they }  {Runs  about  the  room 
searching.)  Oh  Lord,  what's  the  use  of 
living  to  be  so  old  that  you're  scattered 
all  over  the  house  like  a  seed  thistle  ! 
Having  to  hunt  everywhere  for  your  eyes 
and  your  wits  whenever  you  want  to  use 
'em,  and  having  other  folks  a-meddling 
with  'em !  Where  be  the  spectacles  ? 
They  be  not  in  the  cupboard  ;  they  be 


not  on  the  dresser.  Where  be  they  ?  I 
trow  this  be  witch-work,  I  know  well 
enough  what  has  become  of  my  good  horn 
spectacles.  Goody  Bishop  hath  witched 
them  away,  thinking  they  would  suit  well 
with  her  fine  hood.    I  know  well  that  I — 

Phcebe  {sobbing  aloud').  Oh,  Nancy,  it 
is  not  Aunt  Corey.  It  is  only  Goodwife 
Nourse. 

Nancy.  May  the  black  beast  catch 
her  !     Be  you  sure  ? 

Phoebe.  Yes ;  she  is  passing  our  gate. 
Oh,  Nancy,  what  shall  we  do }  what 
shall  we  do  .^ 

A^ancy.  I  would  that  I  had  my  fingers  in 
old  man  Hathorne's  fine  wig.  I  would 
yank  it  off  for  him,  and  fhng  it  to  the 
pigs.  A-sending  master  and  mistress  to 
jail,  and  they  no  more  witches  than  I  be  ! 

Phoebe.  Oh,  Nancy,  be  we  witches? 
They  have  not  sent  us  to  jail. 

iXancy.  I  know  not  what  we  be.  My 
old  head  will  not  hold  it  all.  It  is  time 
they  came  home.  There  is  not  a  crumb 
of  sweet-cake  in  the  house,  and  the  stop- 
ple is  so  tight  in  the,  cider-barrel  that  1 
cannot  stir  it  a  peg.  [Weeps. 


Phoebe.  Nancy,  did  they  send  Aunt 
Corey  and  Uncle  Corey  to  jail  because 
I  stuck  the  pins  in  my  doll  ? 

Nancy.  I  know  not.  I  tell  ye  my  old 
head  spins  round  like  a  flax-wheel ;  when 
I  put  my  finger  on  one  spoke  'tis  another 
one.  These  things  be  too  much  for  a 
poor  old  woman  like  me.  It  takes  folks 
like  their  worships  the  magistrates  and 
Minister  Parris  to  deal  with  black  men 
and  witches,  and  keep  their  wits  in  no 
need  of  physic. 

Phoebe.  Oh,  Nancy,  I  know  what  I  will 
do  !  Oh,  'tis  well  I  snatched  my  doll  off 
the  meeting-house  table  that  day  after 
the  trial,  and  ran  home  with  it  under  my 
apron  !  {Runs  to  the  settle,  takes  iip  the 
doll,  which  is  lying  there,  and  kisses  it?) 
Here  is  one  kiss  for  Aunt  Corey,  here  is 
another  kiss  for  Aunt  Corey,  here  is  an- 
other, and  another,  and  another.  Here 
is  one  kiss  for  Uncle  Corey,  and  here  is 
another  kiss  for  Uncle  Corey,  and  here 
is  another,  and  another,  and  another. 
There,  Nancy  I  will  not  this  do  away 
with  the  pin  pricks,  and  they  be  let  out 
of  jail  ? 


Na7icy.  I  know  not.  My  old  head 
bobs  like  a  pumpkin  in  a  pond.  I  would 
master  and  mistress  were  home.  These 
be  troublous  times  for  an  old  woman.  I 
would  I  could  stir  the  stopple  in  the 
cider -barrel.  Look  again,  and  see  if 
mistress  be  not  coming  up  the  road. 

Phcebe.  It  is  of  no  use.  I  have  looked 
for  a  whole  week,  and  she  has  not  come 
in  sight.  I  want  my  Aunt  Corey  !  Nancy, 
have  I  not  done  away  with  the  pin 
pricks  ?  Tell  me,  will  she  be  not  let 
out  of  jail }  Oh,  there's  Paul  coming  past 
the  window  !  He's  got  home  !  Olive  ! 
Olive ! 

Enter  Paul  Bay  ley.    Phoebe  rims  to  him. 

Phoebe.  Oh,  Paul,  they've  put  Aunt 
Corey  and  Uncle  Corey  in  Salem  jail 
while  you  were  gone!  Can't  you  get 
them  out,  Paul,  can't  you  ? 

Paid.  Where  is  Olive  ? 

Phoebe.  She  is  in  her  chamber.  She 
stays  there  all  the  time  at  prayer.  Olive ! 
Olive  !     Paul  is  come. 

\Calls  at  the  foot  of  chamber  stairs. 

Paul.  Olive! 


77 


Olive  comes  slowly  down  the  stairs  and 
enters. 

Paul  {seizing  her  in  his  arms).  Oh, 
my  poor  lass,  what  is  this  that  hath  come 
to  thee  ? 

Olive.  This  is  what  thou  feared  when 
we  parted,  Paul,  and  more. 

Paul.  I  but  heard  of  it  as  I  came 
through  Salem  on  my  way  hither.  Oh, 
'tis  devilish  work  ! 

Olive.  They  let  miC  loose,  but  father 
and  mother  are  in  Salem  jail. 

Paul.  Poor  lass ! 

Olive.  Can  you  do  naught  to  help 
them,  Paul  ? 

Paid.  Olive,  I  will  help  them,  if  there 
be  any  justice  or  unclouded  minds  left 
in  the  colony. 

Olive.  Thou  art  in  truth  here,  Paul ; 
it  is  thy  voice. 

Paul.  Whose  voice  should  it  be,  dear 
heart  ? 

Olive.  I  know  not.  For  a  week  I  have 
thought  I  heard  so  many  voices.  The 
air  seemed  full  of  voices  a- calling  me, 
but  I  heeded  them   not,  Paul.     I   kept 


78 


all  the  time  at  prayer  and  heeded  them 
not. 

Paid.  Of  course  thou  didst  not.  There 
were  no  voices  to  heed. 

Olive.  Sometimes  I  thought  I  heard 
birds  twittering,  and  sometimes  I 
thought  there  was  something  black  at 
my  elbow,  and  in  the  night-time  faces  at 
my  window.    Paul,  was  there  aught  there .'' 

Paid.  No,  no  ;  there  was  naught  there. 
Birds  and  black  beasts  and  faces  !  This 
be  all  folly,  Olive  ! 

Olive.  The}^  saw  a  black  man  by  my 
side  in  the  meeting-house  —  Ann  saw 
him.  She  cried  out  that  the  cape  I  gave 
her  put  her  to  dreadful  torment.  Can  I 
have  been  a  witch  unknowingly,  and  so 
done  this  great  evil  to  my  father  and 
mother?     Tell  me,  Paul. 

Paul.  Call  up  thy  wits,  Olive !  I  tell 
thee  thou  art  no  witch.  There  was  no 
black  man  at  thy  side  in  the  meeting- 
house. Black  man  !  I  would  one  would 
verily  lay  hands  on  that  lying  hussy. 
Thou  art  no  witch. 

[Phoebe  I'ushes  to  Olive,  and  clings 
to  her,  sobbino;. 


Phoebe.  You  are  not  a  witch,  Olive. 
You  are  not.  If  Ann  says  so  I  will  pinch 
her  and  scratch  her.  I  will !  yes,  I  will 
— I  will  scratch  her  till  the  blood  runs. 
You  are  not  a  witch.  I  was  the  one  that 
got  them  into  jail.  I  stuck  pins  into  my 
doll,  but  I  have  made  up  for  it  now. 
They'll  be  let  out.     Don't  cry,  Olive. 

Na7icy.  Don't  you  fret  yourself,  Olive. 
I  trow  there's  no  witch-mark  on  you. 
It's  Goody  Bishop  in  her  fine  silk  hood 
that's  at  the  bottom  on't.  I  know,  I 
know.  Perchance  Paul  could  loose  the 
stopple  in  the  cider-barrel.  I  am  need- 
ful of  somewhat  to  warm  my  old  bones. 
This  witch-work  makes  them  to  creep 
with  chills  like  long  snakes. 

Olive.  They  say  my  mother  will  soon 
be  hanged,  and  I  perchance  a  witch,  and 
the  cause  of  it.  I  cannot  get  over  it. 
{Moves  away  from  t/iein)  If  I  be  a 
witch,  I  shall  hurt  thee,  as  I  perchance 
have  hurt  them.  [  Weeps. 

Paid.  Olive  Corey,  what  is  that  ? 
■    Olive  {looking  up).  What?  What  mean 
you,  Paul  ?         [Nancy  and  Phoebe  stare. 

Paul.  There,  over  the  cupboard.     Is 


it —  Yes,  'tis —  cobwebs.  I  trow  I  never 
saw  sucli  a  sight  in  Goodwife  Corey's 
house  before. 

Olive.  I  will  brush  them  down,  Paul. 

Paul  {looking  at  theflooj-).  And  I  doubt 
me  much  if  the  floor  has  been  swept  up 
this  week  past,  and  the  hearth  is  all 
strewn  with  ashes.  I  trow  Goodwife 
Corey  would  weep  could  she  see  her 
house  thus. 

Olive.  I  will  get  the  broom,  Paul. 

Paul.  I  know  well  thou  hast  not  spun 
this  last  week,  that  the  cream  is  too  far 
gone  to  be  churned,  and  the  cheeses  have 
not  been  turned. 

Nancy.  'Tis  so,  Paul ;  and  there's  no 
sweet-cake  in  the  house,  either. 

Paul.  Thou  art  no  such  housewife  as 
thy  mother,  Olive  Corey !  One  would 
say  she  had  not  taught  thee.  I  trow 
she  was  a  good  housewife,  and  notable 
among  the  neighbors  ;  but  this  will  take 
from  her  reputation  that  she  hath  so 
brought  thee  up.  I  trow  could  she  see 
this  house  'twould  give  her  a  new  ache 
in  her  heart  among  all  the  others. 

Olive.  I  will  mind  the  house,  Paul. 


Paid.  Ay,  mind  the  house,  poor  lass  I 
Know  you,  OHve,  that  there  is  a  rumor 
abroad  in  Salem  that  your  father  will  re- 
fuse to  plead,  and  will  stand  mute  at  his 
trial  ? 

Olive.  Wherefore  will  he  do  that  ? 

Paul.  I  scarcely  know  why.  Has  he 
made  a  will,  'twill  not  be  valid  were  he 
to  plead  at  a  criminal  trial ;  there  will 
be  an  attainder  on  it.  They  say  that  is 
one  reason,  and  that  he  thinks  thus  to 
show  his  scorn  of  the  whole  devilish 
work,  and  of  a  trial  that  is  no  trial. 

Olive.  What  is  the  penalty  if  he  stand 
mute  ? 

Paul.  'Tis  a  severe  one  ;  but  he  shall 
not  stand  mute. 

Pha^be.  Oh,  Paul,  get  Aunt  Corey  out 
of  jail !  Can't  you  get  Aunt  Corey  out 
of  jail  ? 

Nancy.  Perchance  you  could  pry  up 
the  hook  of  the  jail  door  with  the  old 
knife.  It  will  be  dark  to-night.  There 
is  no  moon  until  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning. 

Olive.  Paul,  think  you  not  that  my 
father's  sons-in-law  might  do  somewhat } 

6 


They  are  men  of  influence.  Their  wives 
are  but  my  half-sisters,  but  they  are  his 
own  daughters.  I  marvel  they  have  not 
come  to  me  since  this  trouble. 

Paid.  Olive,  his  sons-in-law  have  sent 
in  their  written  testimony  against  him 
and  your  mother. 

Olive.  Paul,  it  cannot  be  so  I 

Paul.  They  have  surely  so  testified. 
There  is  no  help  to  be  had  from  them. 
I  have  a  plan. 

Olive.  AH  is  useless,  Paul.  His  sons- 
in-law,  his  own  daughters'  husbands, 
have  turned  against  him  !  There  is  no 
help  anywhere.  My  mother  will  soon 
be  hanged.  Minister  Parris  said  so  last 
night  when  he  came.  And  he  knelt 
yonder  and  prayed  that  I  might  no 
longer  practise  witchcraft.  My  father 
and  mother  are  lost,  and  I  have  brought 
it  upon  them.  Talk  no  more  to  me, 
Paul. 

Paul.  Then,  perchance  your  mother 
be  a  witch,  Olive  Corey. 

Olive.  My  mother  is  not  a  witch. 

Paul.  Doth  not  Minister  Parris  say 
so?  And  if  he  speak  truth  when  he  calls 


83 


you  a  witch,  why  speaks  he  not  truth  of 
your  mother  also  ?  I  trow,  if  you  be  a 
witch,  she  is. 

Olive.  My  mother  is  no  witch,  and  I 
am  no  witch,  Paul  Bayley  ! 

Paid.  Mind  you  stick  to  that,  poor 
lass !  Now,  I  go  to  Boston  to  the  Gov- 
ernor. There  lies  the  only  hope  for  thy 
parents. 

Olive.  Think  you  the  Governor  will 
listen  }  Oh,  he  must  listen  !  Thou  hast 
a  masterful  way  with  thee,  Paul.  When 
wilt  thou  start }     Oh,  if  I  had  not  thee  ! 

Paul.  I  would  I  could  make  myself 
twenty-fold  'twixt  thee  and  evil,  sweet. 
I  will  get  Goodman  Nourse's  horse  and 
start  to-night. 

Olive.  Then  go,  go  !     Do  not  wait ! 

Paul.  I  will  not  wait.  Good-by,  dear 
heart.  Keep  good  courage,  and  put 
foolish  fancies  away  from  thee. 

{^Embraces  her. 

Olive  {freeing  herself) .  This  is  no  time 
for  love-making,  Paul.  I  will  mind  the 
house  well  ajid  keep  at  prayer.  Thou 
need 'st  not  fear.  Now,  haste,  haste  I  Do 
not  wait  I 


Paid.  I  will  be  on  the  Boston  path  in 
a  half-hour.  Good-by,  Olive.  Please 
God,  I'll  bring  thee  back  good  news. 

\E.xit  Paul. 
[Olive  stands  in  the  door  watching 
him  depart.     Phoebe  steals  up 
to   her   and  throws    her   arms 
arou7id  her.      Olive  turns  sud- 
denly and  embraces  the  child. 
Olive.  Come,  sweet ;  while  Paul  sets 
forth   to  the   Governor,  we  will  go  to 
prayer.      Nancy,  come,   we   will  go  to 
prayer  that  the   Governor  may  lend  a 
gracious  ear,  and  our  feet  be  kept  clear 
of  the  snares  of  Satan.     Come,  we  will 
go  to  prayer ;  there  is  naught  left  for  us 
but  to  go  to  prayer ! 

Tableau — Ctirtain  falls. 


ACT  V. 

Six  weeks  later.  Giles  Corey's  cell  in 
Salem  jail.  It  is  early  moi^ning.  Giles, 
heavily  chained,  is  sleeping  upon  his 
bed.  A  noise  is  heard  at  the  door. 
Giles  stirs  and  raises  himself. 

Giles.  Yes,  Martha,  I'm  coming.  {Noise 
continices.)  I'm  coming,  Martha.  {Stares 
around  the  cell.)  God  help  me,  but  I 
thought  'twas  Martha  calling  me  to 
supper,  and  'tis  a  month  since  she  died 
on  Gallows  Hill.  I  verily  thought  that 
I  smelt  the  pork  frying  and  the  pan- 
cakes. 

The  door  is  opened  and  the  Guard,  bring- 
ing a  dish  of  porridge,  enters  ;  he  sets 
it  on  the  floor  beside  the  bed,  then  ex- 
amines Giles's  chains. 

Giles.  Make  sure  they  be  strong,  else 
it  will  verily  go  hard  with  the  hussies. 
They  will  screech  louder  yet,  and  be 
more  like  pin-cushions  than  ever.  Art 
sure  they  be  strong  ?   'Twere  a  pity  such 


guileless  and  tender  maids  should  suffer, 
and  old  Giles  Corey's  hands  be  rough. 
He  hath  hewn  wood  and  handled  the 
plough  for  nigh  eighty  years  with  them, 
and  now  these  pretty  maids  say  he  hurts 
their  soft  flesh.  In  truth,  they  must  be 
sore  afflicted.  Prithee  are  the  chains 
well  riveted  ?  I  thought  last  night  one 
link  seemed  somewhat  loose  as  though 
it  might  be  forced,  and  old  Giles  Corey 
hath  still  some  strength  ;  and  hath  he 
witchcraft,  as  they  say,  it  might  well 
make  him  stronger.  Be  wary  about  the 
chains  for  the  sake  of  those  godly  and 
tender  maids. 

\Exit  Guard.  Giles  takes  the  dish 
of  p07')'idge  and  eats. 
Giles  {making  a  wryfaee).  This  be  rare 
porridge ;  it  be  rare  enough  to  charge  the 
cook  on't  with  witchcraft.  It  tnight  well 
have  been  scorched  in  some  hell-fire.  I 
trow  Martha  would  have  flung  it  to  the 
pigs.  I  verily  thought  'twas  Martha  call- 
ing me  to  supper,  and  I  smelt  the  good 
food  cooking,  and  Martha  hung  a  month 
since  on  Gallows  Hill.  Who's  that  at 
the  door  now  } 


87 


Guard  opens  the  door  and  Paul  Bayley 
enters.  Giles  takes  atiother  spoonful  of 
porridge. 

Paid.  Good-day,  Goodman  Corey. 

Giles.  Taste  this  porridge,  will  ye. 

Paul  {tastes  the  porridge).  'Tis  burned. 

Giles.  It  be  rare  food  to  keep  up  the 
soul  of  an  old  man  who  hath  set  himself 
to  undergo  what  I  have  set  myself  to 
undergo.  But  it  matters  not.  I  trow 
old  Giles  Corey  may  well  have  eat  all  his 
life  unknowingly  to  this  end,  and  hath 
now  somewhat  of  strength  to  fall  back 
upon.  He  needs  no  dainty  fare  to  make 
him  strong  to  undergo  what  he  hath  set 
himself.     How  fares  my  daughter  ? 

Paid.  As  well  as  she  can  fare,  poor 
lass  !  I  saw  her  last  evening.  She  is  now 
calmer  in  her  mind,  and  she  goeth  about 
the  house  like  her  mother. 

Giles.  Her  mother  set  great  store  by 
her.  She  would  often  strive  in  prayer 
that  she  should  not  make  an  idol  of  her 
before  the  Lord. 

Paid.  Goodman,  it  goes  hard  to  tell 
you,  but   I   had  an  audience  yesterday 


again  with  Governor  Phipps,  an'  'twas  in 
vain. 

Giles  {laughing).  In  vain,  say  ye  'twas 
in  vain  ?  Why,  I  looked  to  see  the  par- 
don sticking  out  of  your  waistcoat  pock- 
et !  Why  went  ye  again  to  Boston  ? 
Know  ye  not  that  this  whole  land  is  now 
a  bedlam,  and  the  Governors  and  the 
magistrates  swell  the  ravings  ?  Seek  ye 
in  bedlam  for  justice  of  madmen  ?  It  is 
not  now  pardon  or  justice  that  we  have 
to  think  on,  but  death,  and  the  best  that 
can  be  made  out  on't.  Know  ye  that  my 
trial  will  be  held  this  afternoon? 

Paul.  Yes,  Goodman  Corey. 

Giles.  Sit  ye  down  on  this  stool.  I  have 
much  I  would  say  to  ye. 

[Paul  seats  Jiimself  on  a  stool.  Giles 
sits  on  his  bed. 

Giles.  Master  Bayley,  ye  have  been 
long  a -courting  my  daughter.  Do  ye 
propose  in  good  faith  to  take  her  to 
wife  } 

Paiil.  With  the  best  faith  that  be_^j_n 
me. 

Giles.  Then  I  tell  ye,  man,  take  her 
speedily — take  her  within  three  weeks. 


Paul.  I  would  take  her  with  all  my 
heart,  goodman,  would  she  be  willing. 

Giles.  She  must  needs  be  willing.  \Vh3% 
devil  take  it !  be  ye  not  smart  enough 
to  make  her  willing  }  It  will  all  go  for 
naught  if  she  be  not  willing.  Tell  her 
her  father  bids  her.  She  hath  ever  mind- 
ed her  father. 

Paid.  I  will  tell  her  so,  goodman. 

Giles.  Tell  her  'tis  the  last  command 
her  father  gives  her.  If  she  say  no,  hear 
it  yes.  Do  not  ye  give  it  up  if  ye  have 
to  drag  her  to  't.  Why,  she  must  not  be 
left  alone  in  the  world.  It  be  a  hard 
world.  Old  Giles  hath  gone  far  in  it, 
and  found  it  ever  a  hard  world.  Verily 
it  be  not  cleared  any  more  than  the 
woods  of  Massachusetts.  It  be  hard 
enough  for  a  man ;  a  young  maid  must 
needs  have  somebody  to  hold  aside  the 
boughs  for  her.  Wed  her,  if  she  will  or 
no.  I  have  somewhat  to  show  ye.  Mas- 
ter Bayley.  {Draws  a  dociwieiit  from  his 
waistcoat?)     See  ye  this  } 

[Paul  takes  the  document  and  ex- 
amines it. 

Giles.  See  ye  what  'tis  ? 


Paul.  It  is  a  deed  whereby  you  convey 
all  your  property  to  me,  so  I  be  Olive's 
husband.     Wherefore  ? 

Giles.  It  be  drawn  up  in  good  form.  It 
be  duly  witnessed.  You  see  that  it  be 
all  in  good  form,  Paul. 

Paid.  I  see.     But  wherefore  } 

Giles.  It  will  stand  in  law ;  there  will 
be  no  getting  loose  from  it.  It  be  a  good 
and  trusty  document.  But — so  be  it  that 
this  afternoon  I  stand  trial  for  witch- 
craft, and  plead  guilty  or  not  guilty,  this 
same  good  and  trusty  document  will  be 
worth  less  than  the  parchment  'tis  writ 
on.  'Tis  so  with  the  law.  There  will  be 
an  attainder  on't.  My  sons-in-law  that 
testified  to  the  undoing  of  Martha  and 
me  will  have  their  share,  and  thou  and 
Olive  perchance  have  naught  in  this 
bedlam.  I  bear  no  ill  will  toward  my 
sons-in-law  and  my  daughters,  who  have 
been  put  up  by  them  to  deal  falsely  with 
Martha  and  me,  but  I  would  not  that 
they  have  my  goods.  I  bear  no  ill  will  ; 
it  becometh  not  a  man  so  near  death  to 
bear  ill  will.  But  they  shall  not  have 
my  goods  ;  I  say  they  shall  not.     There 


shall  be  no  attainder  on  this  document. 
I  will  stand  mute  at  my  trial. 

Paid.  Goodman  Corey,  know  you  the 
penalty  } 

Giles.  I  trow  I  know  it  better  than  the 
catechism.  'Tis  to  be  pressed  beneath 
stone  weights  until  I  be  dead. 

Paul.  I  say  you  shall  not  do  this  thing. 
What  think  you  I  care  for  your  goods  } 
I'll  have  naught  to  do  with  them,  nor 
will  Olive.     This  is  madness ! 

Giles.  'Tis  not  all  for  the  goods.  I 
would  Olive  had  them,  and  not  those 
foul  traitors  ;  but  'tis  not  all.  Were  there 
no  goods  and  no  attainder,  I  would  still 
do  this  thing.  Paul,  they  say  that  Mar- 
tha spake  fair  words  when  they  had  her 
there  on  Gallows  Hill. 

Paul.  She  spake  like  a  martyr  at  the 
door  of  heaven. 

Giles.  Did  they  let  her  speak  long  } 

Paul.  They  cut  her  short,  Minister 
Parris  saying,  "  Let  not  this  firebrand  of 
hell  burn  longer." 

Giles.  Then  they  put  the  rope  to  her 
neck.  Martha  had  a  fair  neck  when  she 
was  a  maid. 


Patd.  Not  much. 

Giles.  Then  they  left  her  hanging  there 
a  space.  It  was  a  wet  day,  and  the  rain 
pelted  on  her.  I  remember  it  was  a  wet 
day.  The  rain  pelted  on  her,  and  the 
wind  blew,  and  she  swung  in  it.  I  swear 
to  thee,  lass,  I  will  make  amends  !  I  will 
suffer  twenty  pangs  for  thy  one. 

Paul.  'Tis  not  you  who  should  make 
amends. 

Giles.  I  tell  ye  I  did  Martha  harm. 
When  she  chid  my  folly  and  the  folly  of 
others,  I  did  bawl  out  at  her,  and  say 
among  folk  things  to  her  undoing, 
though  I  meant  it  not  as  they  took  it. 
Now  I  will  make  amends,  and  the  King 
himself  shall  not  stop  me.  Martha  was 
a  good  wife.  I  know  not  how  I  shall 
make  myself  seemly  for  the  court  this 
afternoon.  My  coat  has  many  stitches 
loose  in  it.  She  was  a  good  wife.  I  will 
make  amends  to  thee,  lass ;  I  swear  I 
shall  make  amends  to  thee!  I  will  come 
where  thou  art  by  a  harder  road  than  the 
one  I  made  thee  go. 

Paul.  It  was  not  you,  goodman.  You 
overblame  yourself.  Those  foul-mouthed 


jades  did  it,  and  those  bloodthirsty  mag- 
istrates. 

Giles.  I  tell  ye  I  did  part  on't.  I  was 
wroth  with  her  that  she  made  light  of 
this  witch -work  over  which  I  was  so 
mightily  wrought  up,  and  I  said  words 
that  they  twisted  to  her  undoing.  Ver- 
ily, words  can  be  made  to  fit  all  fancies. 
Twere  safer  to  be  mute — as  I'll  be  this 
afternoon. 

Paid.  Goodman  Corey,  you  must  not 
think  of  this  thing.  There  is  still  some 
hope  from  the  trial.  They  will  not  dare 
murder  you  too. 

Giles.  There  be  some  things  in  this 
world  folks  may  not  bear,  but  there  be 
no  wickedness  they'll  stick  at  when  they 
get  started  on  the  way  to  't.  'Tis  death 
in  any  case,  and  what  would  ye  have  me 
do  ?  Stand  before  their  mad  worships 
and  those  screeching  jades,  and  plead  as 
though  I  were  before  folk  of  sound  mind 
and  understanding?  Think  ye  I  would 
so  humble  myself  for  naught  ? 

Paul.  But  Olive  !  I  tell  you  'twill  kill 
her  !  There  may  be  a  chance  yet,  and 
you   should   throw   not    away   however 


small  a  one  for  Olive's  sake.  She  can 
bear  no  more. 

Giles.  There  is  no  chance,  and  if  there 
were — I  tell  ye  if  I  had  a  hundred  daugh- 
ters, and  every  one  such  a  maid  as  she, 
and  every  one  were  to  break  her  heart, 
I  would  do  this  thing  I  have  set  myself 
to  do.  There  be  that  which  is  beyond 
human  ties  to  force  a  man,  there  be  that 
which  is  at  the  root  of  things. 

Paid.  We  will  have  none  of  your  goods, 
I  tell  you  that,  Giles  Corey ! 

Giles.  Goods.  The  goods  be  the  least 
of  it !  Old  Giles  Corey  be  not  a  deep 
man.  I  trow  he  hath  had  a  somewhat 
hard  skull,  but  when  a  man  draws  in 
sight  of  death  he  hath  a  better  grasp  at 
his  wits  than  he  hath  dreamed  of.  This 
be  verily  a  mightier  work  than  ye  think. 
It  shall  be  not  only  old  Giles  Corey  that 
lies  pressed  to  death  under  the  stones, 
but  the  backbone  of  this  great  evil  in  the 
land  shall  be  broke  by  the  same  weight. 
I  tell  ye  it  will  be  so.  I  have  clearer  un- 
derstanding, now  I  be  so  near  the  end 
on't.  They  will  dare  no  more  after  me. 
To-day  shall  I  stand  mute  at  my  trial, 


but  my  dumbness  shall  drown  out  the 
clamor  of  my  accusers.  Old  Giles  Corey 
will  have  the  best  on't.  'Tis  for  this, 
and  not  for  the  goods,  I  will  stand 
mute  ;  for  this,  and  to  make  amends  to 
Martha. 

Paid.  Giles  Corey,  you  shall  not  die 
this  dreadful  death.  If  death  it  must  be, 
and  it  may  yet  not  be,  choose  the  easier 
one. 

Giles.  Think  ye  I  cannot  do  it?  (Rises) 
Master  Paul  Bayley,  you  see  before  you 
Giles  Corey.  He  be  verily  an  old  man, 
he  be  over  eighty  years  old,  but  there  be 
somewhat  of  the  first  of  him  left.  He 
hath  never  had  much  power  of  speech  ; 
his  words  have  been  rough,  and  not  given 
to  pleasing.  He  hath  been  a  rude  man, 
an  unlettered  man,  and  a  sinner.  He 
hath  brawled  and  blasphemed  with  the 
worst  of  them  in  his  day.  He  hath  giv- 
en blow  for  blow,  and  I  trow  the  other 
man's  cheek  smarted  sorer  than  old 
Giles's.  Now  he  be  a  man  of  the  cove- 
nant, but  he  be  still  stiff  with  his  old 
ways,  and  hath  no  nimbleness  to  shunt 
a  blow.     Old  Giles  Corey  hath  no  fme 


96 


wisdom  to  save  his  life,  and  no  grace  of 
tongue,  but  he  hath  power  to  die  as  he 
will,  and  no  man  hath  greater. 

Paid.  Goodman  Corey,  I — 

[Guard  ope7is  the  door. 

Guaid.  Here  is  your  daughter  to  see 
you,  Goodman  Corey. 

Giles.  Tell  her  I  will  see  her  not.  What 
brought  her  here.-*  I  know.  Minister 
Parris  hath  sent  her,  thinking  to  tempt 
me  from  my  plan.     I  will  see  her  not. 

Olive  {from  Tvit hold).  Father,  you  can- 
not send  me  away. 

Giles.  Why  come  3'ou  here  }  Go  home 
and  mind  the  house. 

Olive.  Father,  I  pray  you  not  to  send 
me  away. 

Paul.  If  vou  be  hard  with  her,  you 
will  kill  her. 

Giles.  Come  in. 

Enter  Olive. 

Olive.  What  is  this  you  will  do,  fa- 
ther } 

Giles.  My  duty,  lass. 

Olive.  Father,  you  will  not  die  this 
dreadful  death  } 


Giles.  That  will  I,  lass. 

Olive.  Then  I  say  to  you,  father,  so 
will  I  also.  The  stones  will  press  you 
down  a  few  hours'  space,  and  they  will 
press  me  down  so  long  as  I  may  live. 
You  will  be  soon  dead  and  out  of  the 
pains,  but  you  will  leave  your  death 
with  the  living. 

Giles.  Then  must  the  living  bear  it. 

Olive.  Father,  you  may  yet  be  acquit- 
ted.    Plead  at  your  trial. 

Giles.  Work  the  bellows  in  the  face  of 
the  north  wind.  Oh,  lass,  w^hy  came  you 
here?  'Tis  worse  than  the  stones.  Talk 
no  more  to  me,  good  lass ;  womenkind 
should  meddle  not  with  men's  plans. 
But  promise  me  you  will  wed  with  Paul 
here  within  three  weeks. 

Olive.  I  will  never  wed. 

Giles.  Ye  will  not,  hey?  Ye  will  wed 
with  Master  Paul  Bayley  within  three 
weeks.  'Tis  the  last  command  your  fa- 
ther gives  thee. 

Olive.  Think  you  I  can  wed  when 
you — 

Giles.  Ay,  I  do  think  so,  lass,  and  so 
3-e  will. 


98 


Olive.  Father,  I  will  not.  But  if  you 
plead  I  will,  I  promise  you  I  will. 

Giles.  I  will  not,  and  you  will.  Lass, 
since  you  be  here,  I  pray  you  set  a 
stitch  in  this  seam  in  my  coat.  I  would 
look  tidy  at  the  trial,  for  thy  mother's 
sake.  Hast  thou  thy  huswife  with 
thee  } 

Olive.  Yes.  father. 

[Olive  threads  a  needle,  and  stand- 
ing beside  her  father,  sets  the 
stitch  ;  weeps  as  she  does  so. 

Giles.  Know  you  ever)'  tear  adds  weight 
to  the  stones,  lass  } 

Olive.  Then  will  I  weep  not.    [Mends. 

Giles.  Be  the  child  and  the  old  woman 
well } 

Olive.  Yes,  father. 

Giles.  Look  out  for  them  as  3'ou  best 
can.  And  see  to  't  the  little  maid's  linen 
chest  is  well  filled,  as  your  mother  would 
have.  [Olive  breaks  off  the  thread. 

Giles.  Be  the  stitch  set  strong  ? 

Olive.  Yes,  father. 

Giles  {turning  and  folding  her  to  his 
arms).  Oh,  my  good  lass,  the  stones  be 
naught,    but    this    cometh     hard,    this 


99 


Cometh   hard  I      Could   they   not   have 
spared  me  this  ? 

Olive.  Father,  listen  to  me,  listen  to 
me — 

Giles.  Lass,  I  must  listen  to  naught 
but  the  voice  of  God.  'Tis  that  speaks, 
and  bids  me  do  this  thing.  Thou  must 
come  not  betwixt  thy  father  and  his  God, 

Olive.  Father  I  father  ! 

Giles.  Go,  Olive,  I  can  bear  no  more. 
Tell  me  thou  wilt  wed  as  I  command 
you. 

Olive.  As  thou  wilt,  father  I  father ! 
but  I  will  love  no  man  as  I  love  thee. 

Giles.  Go,  lass.  Give  me  a  kiss.  There, 
now  go  !  I  command  thee  to  go  I  Paul, 
take  her  hence.  I  charge  ye  do  by  her 
when  her  father  be  dead  and  gone,  as  ye 
would  were  he  at  thy  elbow.  Take  her 
hence.     I  would  go  to  prayer. 

[Exeunt  Paul  a7id  Olive. 

Olive  (as  the  door  closes).  Father  I  fa- 
ther! 

Giles  Corey  stands  alone  in  cell. 
Curtain  falls. 


ACT  VI. 

Three  weeks  later.  Lane  near  Salem  over- 
himg  by  blosso?7izng  apple-trees.  Enter 
Hathorne,  Corwin,  and  Parris. 

Corivin.  'Tis  better  here,  a  little  re- 
moved from  the  field  where  they  are 
putting  Giles  Corey  to  death.  I  could 
bear  the  sight  of  it  no  longer. 

Hathorne.  You  are  fainthearted,  good 
Master  Corwin. 

Corivin.  Fainthearted  or  not,  'tis  too 
much  for  me.  I  was  brought  not  up  in 
the  shambles,  nor  bred  butcher  by  trade. 

Parris.  Your  worship,  3'ou  should 
strive  in  prayer,  lest  you  falter  not  in 
the  strife  against  Satan. 

Corwin.  I  know  not  that  I  have  fal- 
tered in  any  strife  against  Satan. 

Parris.  Perchance  'tis  but  your  wor- 
ship's delicate  frame  of  body  causeth 
you  to  shrink  from  this  stern  duty. 

Hathorne.  This  torment  of  Giles  Co- 
rey's can  last  but  a  little  space  now.  He 
hath  still  his  chance  to  speak  and  avert 


his  death,  and  he  will  do  it  erelong. 
They  have  increased  the  weights  might- 
ily. Fear  not,  good  Master  Corwin,  Giles 
Core}^  will  not  die ;  erelong  his  old 
tongue  will  wag  like  a  millwheel. 

Corwin.  I  doubt  much,  good  Master 
Hathorne,  if  Giles  Corey  speak.  And  if 
he  does  not  speak,  and  so  be  put  to  death, 
as  is  decreed,  I  doubt  much  if  the  temper 
of  the  people  will  stand  more.  There 
are  those  who  have  sympathy  with  Giles 
Corey.  I  heard  many  murmurs  in  the 
streets  of  Salem  this  morning. 

Hathorne.  Let  them  murmur. 

P arris.  Ay,  let  them  murmur,  so  long 
as  we  wield  the  sword  of  the  Lord  and 
of  Gideon. 

Enter  first  Messenger. 

Hathorne.  Here  comes  a  man  from  the 
field.  How  goes  it  now  with  Giles  Corey  "> 

Messenger.  Your  worship,  Giles  Co- 
rey has  not  spoken. 

P arris.  And  he  hath  been  under  the 
weights  since  early  light.  Truly  such 
obstinacy  is  marvellous. 

[/f.r//  Messenger. 


HatJiorjie.  Satan  gives  a  strength  be- 
yond human  measure  to  his  disciples. 

Enter  OHve  a7id  Paul  Bayley,  appearing 
in  the  distance.  Olive  wears  a  white 
gown  and  white  bonnet. 

Hathorne.  Who  is  that  maid  coming 
in  a  bride  bonnet? 

Corwin.  'Tis  Corey's  daughter,  I  mar- 
vel that  Paul  lets  her  come  hither,  'Tis 
no  place  for  her,  so  near.  Master  Ha- 
thorne, let  us  withdraw  a  little  way.  I 
would  not  see  her  distress.  I  am  some- 
what shaken  in  nerve  this  morning, 

[Corwin,  Hathorne,  and  Parris  ex- 
eunt at  other  end  of  lane. 

Olive  {as  she  and  Paul  advance).  Who 
were  those  men,  Paul  } 

Paul.  The  magistrates  and  Minister 
Parris,  sweet. 

Olive.  Are  they  gone  } 

Paul.  Yes,  they  are  quite  out  of  sight. 
Oh,  why  wouldst  thou  come  here,  dear 
heart } 

Olive.  Thou  thinkest  to  cheat  me, 
Paul ;  but  thou  canst  not  cheat  me. 
Three  fields  away  to  the  right  have  they 


I03 


dragged  my  father  this  morning.  1 
knew  it,  I  knew  it,  although  you  strove 
so  hard  to  keep  it  from  me.  I'll  be  as 
near  my  father's  death-bed  on  my  wed- 
ding-day as  I  can. 

Paul.  I  pray  thee,  sweetheart,  come 
away  with  me.     This  will  do  no  good. 

Olive.  Loyalty  doth  good  to  the  heart 
that  holds  it,  if  to  no  other.  Think  you 
I'll  forsake  my  father  because  'tis  my 
wedding-day,  Paul?  Oh,  I  trow  not,  I 
trow  not,  or  I'd  make  thee  no  true 
w^ife. 

Paul.  It  but  puts  thee  to  needless  tor- 
ment. 

Olive.  Torment  I  torment  I  Think  of 
what  he  this  moment  bears  I  Oh,  my 
father,  my  father  I  Paul  Bayley,  why 
have  I  wedded  you  this  dreadful  day  ! 

Paul.  Hush  !  Thy  father  wished  it, 
sweetheart. 

Olive.  I  swear  to  you  I'll  never  love 
any  other  than  my  father.  I  love  you 
not. 

Paul.  Thou  needst  not,  poor  lass  ! 

Olive  {clijtging  to  him).  Nay,  I  love 
thee,  but  I  hate  myself  for  it  on  this  day. 


Paul  {caressing  /ler).  Poor  lass  I  Poor 
lass  ! 

Oliz-e.  Why  wear  I  this  bridal  gear, 
and  my  father  over  yonder  on  his  dread- 
ful death-bed  ?  Why  could  you  not  have 
gone  your  own  way  and  let  me  gone 
mine  all  the  rest  of  my  life  in  black  ap- 
parel, a-mourning  for  my  father?  That 
would  have  beseemed  me.  This  needed 
not  have  been  so ;  it  needed  never  have 
been  so. 

Paul.  Never?  I  tell  thee,  sweet,  as 
well  say  to  these  apple  blossoms  that 
they  need  never  be  apples,  and  to  that 
rose-bush  against  the  wall  that  its  buds 
need  not  be -roses.  In  faith,  we  be  far 
set  in  that  course  of  nature,  dear,  with 
the  apple  blossoms  and  the  rose-buds, 
where  the  beginning  cannot  be  without 
the  end.  Our  own  motion  be  lost,  and 
we  be  swept  along  with  a  current  that  is 
mightier  than  death,  whether  we  would 
have  it  so  or  not. 

Olive.  I  know  not.  I  only  know  I 
would  be  faithful  to  my  poor  father. 
But  'twas  his  last  wish  that  I  should 
wed  thee  thus. 


I05 


PaiiL  Yes,  dear. 

Olive.  He  said  so  that  morning  be- 
fore his  trial.  Oh,  Paul,  I  can  see  it 
now,  the  trial !  I  have  been  to  the  trial 
every  day  since.  Shall  I  go  every  day 
of  my  life.'*  Perchance  thou  may  often 
come  home  and  find  thy  wife  gone  to 
the  trial,  and  no  supper.  I  will  go  on 
my  wedding-day ;  my  father  shall  have 
no  slights  put  upon  him.  I  can  see  him 
stand  there,  mute.  They  cry  out  upon 
him  and  mock  him  and  lay  false  charges 
upon  him,  and  he  stands  mute.  The 
judge  declares  the  dreadful  penalty,  and 
he  stands  mute.  Oh,  my  father,  my 
poor  father !  I  tell  ye  my  father  will 
not  mind  anything.  The  Governor  and 
the  justices  may  command  him  as  they 
will,  the  afflicted  may  clamor  and  gibe 
as  they  will,  and  I  may  pray  to  him,  but  he 
will  not  mind,  he  will  stand  mute.  I  tell 
ye  there  be  not  power  enough  in  the  col- 
ony to  make  him  speak.  Ye  know  not 
my  father.     He  will  have  the  best  of  it. 

Paid.  Thou  speakest  like  his  daughter 
now.  Keep  thyself  up  to  this,  sweet. 
The  daughter   of  a   hero    should    have 


io6 


some  brave  stuff  in  her.  Thy  father 
does  a  greater  deed  than  thou  knowest. 
His  dumbness  will  save  the  colonies 
from  more  than  thou  dreamest  of.  'Twill 
put  an  end  to  this  dreadful  madness  ;  he 
himself  hath  foretold  it. 

[A  c/amor  z's  heard. 

Olive,  Paul,  Paul,  what  is  that  .> 

Paul.  Naught  but  some  boys  shout- 
ing, sweet. 

Olive.  'Twas  not.  Oh,  my  father,  my 
father ! 

Patil.  Olive,  thou  must  not  stay  here. 

Olive.  I  must  stay.     Who  is  coming.? 
[Paul  and  Olive  step  aside. 

Eiiter  second  Messenger.  Hathorne, 
Corwin,  and  Parris  advance  to  meet 
him. 

Hathorne.  How  goes  it  now  with  Giles 
Corey  ? 

Messenger.  Your  worship,  Giles  Co- 
rey hath  not  spoken. 

Hathorne.  What  I  Have  they  not  in- 
creased the  weights  ? 

Messe7iger.  They  have  doubled  the 
weights,  your  worship. 


Parris.  I  trow  Satan  himself  hath  put 
his  shoulder  under  the  stones  to  take  off 
the  strain.  [Exzi  Messenger. 

Hathor7te.  'Tis  a  marvel  the  old  tav- 
ern-brawler endures  so  long,  but  he'll 
soon  speak  now. 

Corwin.  Hush,  good  master,  his  daugh- 
ter can  hear. 

Hathorne.  Let  her  then  withdraw  if 
it  please  her  not.  I'll  warrant  he  can- 
not bear  much  more ;  he  will  soon 
speak. 

Parris.  Yea,  he  cannot  withstand  the 
double  weight  unless  his  master  help 
him. 

[Corwin  speaks  aside  to  Paul  and 
motions  him  to  take  Olive  away. 
Paul  takes  her  by  the  arm.  She 
shakes  her  head  and  luill  not  go. 

Hathorne.  I  trow  'twill  take  other 
than  an  unlettered  clown  like  Giles  Co- 
rey to  stand  firm  under  this  stress. 
He'll  speak  soon. 

Parris.  Yea,  that  he  will.  He  can 
never  hold  out.  He  hath  not  the  mind 
for  it. 

Hathorne.  It  takes  a  man  of  finer  wit 


than  he  to  undergo  it.  He  will  speak. 
Oh  yes,  fear  ye  not,  he  will  speak. 

Olive  {breaking  away  from  Paul).  ISIy 
father  will  not  speak  ! 

HatJiorne.  Girl ! 

Olive.  My  father  will  not  speak.  I  tell 
ye  there  be  not  stones  enough  in  the 
provinces  to  make  him  speak.  Ye  know 
not  my  father.  My  father  will  have  the 
best  of  ye  all. 

E7ttcr  third  Messenger,  rujining. 

Hat  home.  How  goes  it  now  with  Giles 
Corey  } 

Messenger.  Giles  Core}^  is  dead,  and  he 
has  not  spoken. 

Olive  clings  to  Paul  as  curtain  falls. 


THE   END. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

305  De  Neve  Drive  -  Parking  Lot  17  •  Box  951388 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA  90095-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library  from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


OCT  0  8  ^007 

UCLA  COL  LIB   , 
RECEIVED  -^^i^ 


L  2007 


000  008  266 


